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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28291668">Wires Crossed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoesItWeighMoreThanADuck/pseuds/DoesItWeighMoreThanADuck'>DoesItWeighMoreThanADuck</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lemon Demon (Musician)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Conspiracy Theories, Family Drama, Gen, M/M, undead character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:08:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>96,627</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28291668</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoesItWeighMoreThanADuck/pseuds/DoesItWeighMoreThanADuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lyra is a successful pop star with a big secret from the outside world: she's undead. Her cousin Tucker is a conspiracy theorist who was alone in the world until he found love in the strangest place--namely, in an old arcade--only to have that love creully ripped away from him one night in late December. Now, for the first time in years, these two once-close but now-distant relatives are given a chance to rekindle their familial bond. Can they find a way to reconnect? And, with the help of the shady organization responsible for Lyra's resurrection several years ago, is it possible to bring back the man that Tucker had fallen in love with? But that's assuming Lyra is willing to disclose her undead status in the first place... whatever happens, reforging this familial relationship will be difficult to navigate.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One cold December night back in 1984</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Couple of important thing to note about this:<br/>1. I wouldn't really call this a "lemonverse" thing per se, although that definitely helped inspire me-- despite having the same premise (making up characters and a story based on lemon demon songs) this is set in a different universe than that, with a different set of characters.<br/>2. Although this first chapter takes place on christmas because, well, that's when the plot starts, this is going to be multi-chapter, and (although admittedly I don't have the whole thing totally planned out yet) will likely take place over the course of several months.<br/>Also this is sort of a kind-of-but-not-really sequel to a poem I wrote and posted on my tumblr (@/primatechnosynthpop) a while back, but you don't really need that context to understand the plot of this. If there's anything about the plot that you do find confusing at first, it will probably start making more sense as you go along. Anyay, hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The suffocating darkness of the cramped backstage area was filled with a neverending hum of anticipation. While her bandmates bustled around her, Lyra readjusted her gelled-up hair and looked over her makeup in the mirror to be sure everything unnatural or spooky about her was well-concealed. Putting her undead status on display was fine for an October show, but late December, not so seasonally appropriate.</p><p>It was hard to tell whether she was concealed enough in the dim lighting, but then again, it would be as dark in the concert hall as it was here. And especially with high-contrast red and green spotlights shining down on her, most audience members probably wouldn't know the difference. And even if she did end up letting her true nature show by accident, most people would chalk it up to a trick of the light or a special effect. The only people who really bought into the whole "secret organization that revives pop stars" thing were conspiracy nuts like...</p><p>Lyra's phone rang from its facedown position on the desk a couple feet away. Lips tugging into a slight scowl, she reached over and grabbed it, intending to tell the caller to call back later, or just dismiss them altogether, depending on who it was.</p><p>Seeing the caller ID gave her pause. In fact, it stopped her in her tracks altogether. <em>No way</em>... He hadn't been in touch with her for nearly five years, and now he decides to reach out? <em>Right now?</em> Ten minutes before the show starts?!</p><p>Against her better judgment and trying to hold back a growl, Lyra swiped to accept the call. As she lifted the phone to her ear, she made a hasty swerve out of the dressing room down the hall toward the bathrooms, so she wouldn't be overheard. As much as she trusted her bandmates, some things were best kept private.</p><p>"Yeah? What is it?"</p><p>"Lyra!" Even after all these years, the voice of Tucker T. Tellison was unchanged; unmistakable. She cringed at her cousin's high-pitched, pleading, downright <em>pathetic</em> tone. "Oh my god, it's really you. I wasn't sure--I mean, of course I thought you were, I mean I knew--but I didn't <em>know</em>--oh, god, it's good to hear your voice!"</p><p>Her scowl deepened. Already she was regretting picking up the phone. That tended to happen to people when they talked on the phone with Tucker. It had happened to her before, most of the times they had talked, up until they'd stopped talking a few years back. Since then, she had missed him sometimes. Right now, she couldn't imagine why.</p><p>"What can I do for you, Tellison?" she said through gritted teeth. The hand not holding the phone was clenched into a fist at her side as she stood in the narrow hallway, next to the bathroom door. "And you'd better make it snappy, because I've got to be onstage in less than ten minutes."</p><p>"Y-you've got a show? Oh, geez, Lyra, that's great! The one and only Lyra Amelia Deward, still in action--or back in action--whichever, like you never left!"</p><p>Just as Lyra was about to hang up on him, Tucker took a breath and all the giddy excitement in his voice deflated. When he spoke again, his voice was low and wilted. Absolutely miserable. There was a ragged edge to it that suggested he'd been crying (another thing that anyone he phoned frequently was no stranger to).</p><p>"...Ah, geez, it's terrible... it's just terrible. Someone broke in, Ly, and they--and they--they painted on him, and broke him, and knocked him over... there's wires and blood everywhere, so much blood, and he's... he's..."</p><p>"Jesus christ," Lyra hissed. "What the hell are you talking about? What happened?"</p><p>Tucker broke off into inconsolable babbling. It was yet another thing she'd heard from him many a time before. Somehow, though, it was different this time.</p><p>It had been a long time, of course, and it might have just been warped memory perception, but... she could have sworn that her little cousin's crying was usually a bit, for lack of a better term, sillier than this. This didn't sound like he was hung up on some crazy theory and/or some guy who didn't feel the same way. This sounded like something actually bad had happened. This was raw, palpable despair, and for the first time since they were kids, hearing her cousin sob made a knot tighten in Lyra's throat.</p><p>"Okay, okay, it's alright," she whispered, bringing her phone up close to her lips as though by doing so she could press a kiss of reassurance to the top of her cousin's head. That was <em>definitely</em> something that hadn't happened since they were kids. "Tucker, just hang on. I need you to listen to my questions, and answer me. Okay?"</p><p>On the other end of the line, she heard him draw in a few ragged gasps. It almost reminded her of her own resurrection. She shuddered, but whether it was at the memory or simply at the feeling brought on by her cousin's predicament, she couldn't tell.</p><p>"...Okay," he managed to get out after taking a moment to catch his breath. She could still hear the tears in his voice, and in the distance, what sounded like police sirens approaching. "Okay. Ask away."</p><p>"First of all, are you safe?"</p><p>Tucker hesitated, and Lyra held her breath. Technically she didn't need to breathe anyway, but she still liked to. Not breathing didn't make her feel tight inside, but it did make her feel stagnant, like she couldn't move forward and belonged under the ground. The only thing that prevented her from feeling tight inside was being able to hear him breathing, shakily but steadily, on the other end of the line.</p><p>"Yes," he finally said, in a meek tone of voice. He sounded almost ashamed to admit it. "Yes, <em>I'm</em> safe. <em>I'm</em> perfectly fine."</p><p>Emphasis on the <em>I'm,</em> Lyra noted. She bit her tongue and held back on the obvious follow-up question: <em>"who did you just lose?"</em> Because judging by how the conversation had been going so far, that was the only thing she could think of that could have prompted this.</p><p>In a twisted way, and she really did feel bad for thinking like this, but she was almost proud of her little cousin for having gotten close enough to someone in order to suffer the pain of loss so strongly. She had never thought it possible. Questions burned within her: who this person had been, how Tucker had managed to win them over, exactly how close they'd gotten, and what tragic fate had befallen them to leave Tucker breaking down in authentic tears.</p><p>The follow-up question she asked instead was, "Where are you?"</p><p>"I'm at the old arcade," he sniffled. "Alone."</p><p>She knew at once which arcade he meant. The fact that he hadn't seen the need to specify the name meant that it was <em>the</em> arcade. The one from their hometown, which they'd played at together as kids. The old arcade that was a mere three blocks away from the concert hall. She could be there in two minutes if she left now, abandoned her bandmates and the eager audience waiting for them; jeopardized her already fragile career for the sake of a relative who she had last heard from almost five years ago, and their last conversation prior to this had been primarily comprised of him talking about the mothman.</p><p>"Well, listen, Tuck, I'm a few miles out of town right now," she said. "I'll try to be there in an hour or so, okay? So just hang tight until I get there."</p><hr/><p>On some level, Tucker couldn't help feeling that it was his fault.</p><p>The arcade was closed during the holidays. Okay, so? The arcade was closed most of the time these days, and when it was open, hardly anyone came. Tucker couldn't count the number of times he'd snuck into the arcade when it was closed to visit the object of his affections. In fact, better to visit when the arcade was closed and empty, to ensure that they had a little privacy.</p><p>But, well, Tucker had known the owner of the arcade ever since he was a kid. When the old man lamented about how people kept breaking and entering, Tucker had felt guilty despite himself. He could lay off it for a little while, he decided. He checked with his... with his lover, he supposed would be the right term, and had confirmed that no winter holidays meant anything in particular to them. It wasn't a time of year when they would long for each other's company any stronger than any other time. For the old man's sake, then, they'd give it a rest. Just for the holidays, they would go without seeing each other while the arcade was closed, so that the arcade owner could rest easy for a while.</p><p>Except Tucker wasn't being completely honest. He did have some emotional investment in the holiday season. And, although he obviously knew he wouldn't receive anything in return, he felt compelled to make a gift for his boyfriend: a VHS of his favourite short film, and a hand-knitted (and by extension somewhat lopsided) plush toy of a mongoose. Oh, and a bouquet of flowers. Call Tucker a romantic, but his heart knew what it knew, and it wanted what it wanted. That had always been the case, and it had lost him more interpersonal connections than he'd gained, but with his boyfriend it was different. This was someone who Tucker loved, and who loved him back, and by god, he was going to manifest that love in the form of some silly little material items!</p><p>Tucker had finished burning the VHS and making the plush toy a few days before Christmas, and he could have picked up the flowers at any point. He already knew that his boyfriend didn't really celebrate the holiday, so the specific date he gave him this gift shouldn't have mattered. It was stupid of him to wait for the "proper day". If he had just gone there sooner...</p><p>If they hadn't made that agreement to give the old man a break, and Tucker had been at the arcade the previous night, or whenever this had happened...</p><p>If he hadn't made up all these inane little rules for himself to follow!</p><p>If he had just been there.</p><p>Tucker wasn't sure exactly how long he sat there for, despondent, in a pile of dried blood and limp wires and organs that were as cold to the touch as the tiles of the arcade floor they were strewn across. Of course the arcade was closed on Christmas, just as it had been the night before, so he was alone. The old man who ran the place was at home or with his grandkids. There were no customers coming and going, nobody showing up to break the unbearable silence. That was something that had annoyed him so much. When he and his only friend, eventually turned lover, had been alone together, only for someone to barge into the arcade and disturb their private moment... he had wanted to curse them out, and his boyfriend had sometimes expressed a desire to eat the intruders, which Tucker got the feeling wasn't entirely a joke.</p><p>Nobody was coming in now. Even those distant police sirens faded off into the distance as quickly as they approached; they weren't going to bother investigating a breaking-and-entering at a derelict old arcade. There wasn't even the faintest beep or buzz of machinery, with nobody around to play any of the regular arcade games. The only sounds were the faint ticking of the clock, and Tucker's own breaths, ragged from crying.</p><p>The only thing that kept him from... from doing something drastic... was his cousin's voice echoing in his ears.</p><p><em>Lyra... </em>It had been such a long time since he'd talked to her--to say nothing of how long it had been since they'd had a friendly conversation. Why, the last time they'd talked was when she was only just starting to get really famous with her band. That was before her accident, of course... indeed, by the time that happened, they weren't really talking anymore, and he had to read about the incident in the papers rather than hear it from Lyra herself.</p><p>God, he had missed her sometimes. But not her the way she was now. He missed how it was when they were kids, before she got famous. Thinking of the old days produced a sharp stinging sensation behind his eyes. He'd already cried so much that he didn't have any tears left in him, and his throat felt like there were hot coals lodged inside it, but a shaky gasp of nostalgia-tinged regret escaped from his chapped lips as he recalled how things had been, how they'd changed, how they were now.</p><p>His body shook, emotion combined with exhaustion rendering him unable to hold himself upright any more. Tired limbs giving out, Tucker let himself collapse; he landed facedown in the mess that had once been the love of his life. If the blood hadn't already dried, he could have drowned himself in it.</p><p>The arcade was still empty.</p><hr/><p>"Guys, I'm really sorry," Lyra said for what felt like the dozenth time in two minutes. "But I told you, I can't go with you. You'll just have to have fun without me."</p><p>"Oh, but it'll be so fun," sighed Cindy, her wispy hair shaking as she gave a plaintive shake of her head. She laid a hand gently on Lyra's arm, gazing at her with intense, soulful eyes. "Come on, Ly, I know you haven't got any family to spend the holiday with. We're--well, I don't want to be rude, but aren't we all you've got?"</p><p>"Yeah, c'mon," Diablo agreed, leaning over to grab her other shoulder. "I'll even pay for the milkshakes if that's what you want."</p><p>"No, guys, listen..."</p><p>Lyra bit her lip, wondering what she could possibly say to convince her bandmates that, as much as she would have liked to attend their celebratory after-show party, she genuinely had another commitment. It had been hard enough sneaking away from the auditorium once the show was done without getting held up by fans. Now, out in the lobby, her bandmates had caught up to her just as she'd been about to head out the door. Just great.</p><p>Either luckily or very unluckily, she was saved from having to come up with an excuse by way of an interjection from the fourth and perhaps most enigmatic band member.</p><p>"Actually, Cindy, that's not quite right. Lyra does have family: a younger cousin. Right, Ly?"</p><p>Lyra turned to glare at Neil, who blinked innocently back at her, hands in his pockets. The youngest-looking member of the band, but the one who Lyra had been friends with the longest, he had started off as a musician with technical skills but little creativity (as opposed to Diablo, who had joined the band with plenty of aspirations but no musical ability; and Cindy, who'd had talent and drive, but no success with her previous attempt at a solo career). That had all changed over time, of course. Hell, looking back on it, Lyra had probably been missing something back when she first started the band. Determination, maybe. Or street smarts. Or, most likely, the proper aesthetic. Point is, she'd gotten to know Neil before the others, back when she and Tucker still talked. Ergo, Neil knew that she had a cousin. She'd just never told him, or the others, how that particular familial relationship had petered out.</p><p>"Ohh, is that so?" Diablo's grin was unchanged as he cocked an eyebrow. "Well, if that's who you've got a prior commitment with, why didn't you say so sooner? It's the season to hang out with relatives and all that!"</p><p>Cindy nodded in agreement. "Gosh, now I'm sorry for pressuring you to come with us instead... have fun visiting your cousin!"</p><p>Lyra tried not to frown. If anything, she would have preferred her bandmates turning hostile and demanding that she come with them. The thought of seeing Tucker again after all these years was... well, she wasn't exactly looking forward to it. It wouldn't be right not to come to his aid when he needed her, but if she was put in a situation where she <em>couldn't</em> help him, a situation where she had <em>no choice</em> but to break her promise... well, that would have been kind of convenient, okay? Still, she knew it was what she had to do. And as much as she would have rather gone with her friends, she didn't entirely not want to comfort Tucker. After all, what kind of asshole abandons a grieving relative?</p><p>"Thanks, guys," she said, waving at her bandmates as she turned to leave. "And, hey--maybe reserve a table for me just in case. I'll text you guys later!"</p><p>"Later!" the others chorused.</p><p>Outside the concert hall, cold winter air bit into exposed sections of Lyra's skin. She didn't actually feel the cold, of course, but she knew that too much exposure to the elements would damage her. Before you know it, her body could be as worn-down as a well-loved box of crayons, and then it would be time for her permanent retirement. Yikes. Gritting her teeth against the thought of being put down, Lyra picked up her pace. What began as a speed-walk down the sidewalk quickly escalated into a full-tilt sprint.</p><p>She would have known the arcade's location from memory with her eyes closed, but as it was, it looked exactly the way it had since she was a kid. Of course the sign outside was pretty damn faded now, but it was the very same sign. Unmistakable, although she hadn't been there in over a decade, the same way Tucker's voice had been unmistakable over the phone earlier. Some things just stay in your head, in your heart, in your blood.</p><p>Unmistakable, which made the broken window all the more jarring.</p><p>She was in such a rush that she wouldn't have noticed if she didn't hear the glass crunch under her boots. She thought it was just ice at first, but a glance down revealed shards of broken glass scattered across the sidewalk. A glance up, through the shattered window, revealed a view of the arcade's interior. It was dark, and she couldn't see anyone inside (well, of course not, on a statutory holiday) but she thought she could hear something. Muffled crying, maybe. Or maybe just the breaths of someone who'd already run themselves ragged from crying too much. Either way, there was no question as to who it was.</p><p>"Oh, shit," Lyra muttered darkly.</p><p>Well, no sense hanging around outside. She reached for the door only to realize it would be locked. Instead, she reluctantly stepped through the broken window, moving gingerly so as not to slice herself open on the glass. God knew her agent wouldn't be happy about that.</p><p>Once inside the arcade, she found that it wasn't as dark as it had appeared from the outside. She could make out the dimly lit rows of dormant arcade machines, stretching toward the back of the building, where the noise was coming from. Tentatively, she made her way toward the source of the sound.</p><p>"Tucker?" she called, hoping on some level that he wouldn't answer so she could just turn around and leave. This place creeped her out. (She would say it made her skin crawl, but nothing had that effect on her anymore.) "Are you in here?"</p><p>A muffled gasp of recognition, followed by a pause that stretched for long enough to make her wonder if the noise had just been her imagination, and then...</p><p>"Lyra? Is that you?"</p><p>It was a rhetorical question, of course; he would have recognized her voice just as easily as she recognized his, if not more so given how often her songs got played on the radio. Then again, if Tucker listened to the radio, she figured he'd be more likely to tune to AM stations than FM...</p><p>"Yeah, it's me," she answered anyway. "Hang on, I'm coming..."</p><p>Winding her way through the maze of machines, she turned a corner toward the back entrance of the arcade. What came into view made her stop in her tracks.</p><p>There, bathed in the red glow of the exit sign, was Tucker, looking just as gaunt and a lot more ragged than the last time she'd seen him. And there, on the floor next to him, was a tipped-over and graffitied arcade machine with a bashed-in screen. Its cabinet doors swung open, revealing the mess inside that had spilled out onto the floor around it.</p><p>Blood. Squishy shapes that she gradually registered as organs--human organs. All that, and circuitry too.</p><p>And Tucker, sitting hunched over this half-human, half-machine abomination with the exit sign's glow reflecting off his oversized glasses, was weeping at the death of this thing.</p><hr/><p>When he heard his cousin's voice calling to him, heard her approaching footsteps (felt them, too, with his ear pressed against the floor) Tucker almost thought he was imagining it. Not that he'd already forgotten his call to Lyra, and her promise to come see him, but... well, it had been a long time. Plenty of people had "promised" to call him back. His ex had "promised" that conspiracy theory talk didn't bother him, wasn't going to scare him away. Tucker had "promised" not to come to the arcade while it was closed over the holidays. He should have broken his promise sooner. If he'd just been there...</p><p>But, no, that was Lyra. She was there. Her voice pulled Tucker out of his trance, and he sat up, blinking and adjusting his glasses.</p><p>It felt like waking up from a dream. A nightmare, in this case. But not really, because the horrific thing was still there, right in front of him. On the ground beneath him. On the floor around him. Bile rose in Tucker's throat, his stomach churning even more viciously than it had the first time around, as he took in the grisly sight for the second time. He thought his tears had been depleted, but staring down at the cracked and destroyed screen that had been his lover's face, he could have sworn he felt a few fresh tears dribble down his cheeks.</p><p><em>No time to cry now</em>, he reminded himself sternly. <em>Lyra is here. Don't let her see you being so pathetic, or she'll just turn around and leave again.</em></p><p>"Lyra?" He knew it was her, but something compelled him to ask anyway, just to be sure: "Is that you?"</p><p>"Yeah, it's me," confirmed her familiar voice. Yes, familiar, although now that he really listened there was something different about it that he couldn't quite put his finger on... "Hang on, I'm coming."</p><p>Tucker didn't know what to expect upon seeing his older cousin again for the first time in five years. She would be, well, older, of course--thirty-one years old, to be exact. She probably would have changed her hairstyle. Maybe she'd have a couple new piercings or tattoos. Other than that, he didn't see why she would look all that different than she had at the time of their last in-person encounter.</p><p>And sure enough, when she stepped into view, he was immediately reminded of the last time he'd seen her. The way her face was slathered in neon makeup, the jangly mess of earrings, the knee-high boots and fishnet stockings. It was all the things he didn't want to judge her for--he wouldn't judge any other person for dressing that way--but it just wasn't <em>her</em>, not the way he remembered her being when they were young and got along better. And now it was even gaudier. She wore a typical "sexy" Christmas outfit--a little red dress with white faux-fur trim and a santa hat--and her face was decorated with green eye makeup, red lipstick so bright it practically glowed, and splashes of silver glitter on her cheeks. Clearly her band had just finished performing live, and she hadn't gotten the chance to change out of her costume yet. Nothing to fault her for, but still, it was a lot to take in.</p><p>One thing he did like was her hair. It was dyed dark red, unlike the bright pink it had been last time, and although sheared short on one side, on the other side it hung over her face, obscuring much of the left side of her face altogether. He liked her new tattoos, too, although they startled him a bit at first when he spotted them. Quite the bold creative choice to decorate her body with, but that was Lyra for you.</p><p>His musings on his cousin's look trailed off as he noticed the expression on her face. It was difficult to read, due to a combination of factors only partially relating to how long it had been since they'd seen each other, but... she looked shocked. Confused. Disgusted, maybe.</p><p>"Um, Tucker?" Her lip curled up ever so slightly as she spoke--yep, there it was, disgust. "What... is that thing?"</p><p>In retrospect, Tucker would realize that Lyra's reaction was only to be expected. She'd never met his boyfriend. She hadn't gotten the chance to know him the way Tucker had. Most people would be more than a little creeped out by a living arcade machine, especially when the thing that made it sentient were the human organs stuffed inside it. It was perfectly understandable that she would be taken aback. But in the moment, the crushing feeling of betrayal that squeezed his heart was palpable. Had he not already run himself dry, Tucker would have started crying even harder at the damning realization that Lyra was just as horrified by the sight of his murdered lover as he was, but for a very different reason.</p><p>She must have seen the despair in his eyes, because she bit her tongue and shook her head, a vaguely guilty look flitting across her features.</p><p>"Oh, shit. Tucker, that's not... I mean, that's not what--that's not who you were crying for, right? What did that thing... did it hurt you? Or did it do something to someone you were...? Seriously, what <em>happened</em>?"</p><p>Her tone escalated in pitch as she spoke. Still, despite her apparent urgency, she didn't move from her position a few feet away. The gap that yawned between them felt as tremendously vast as it did when they talked over the phone, if not more so.</p><p>All Tucker could bring himself to do was stare at her and shake his head. The longer he sat there staring up at her, all dolled up, the more aware he became of his own ragged state. Here he was with his eyes red and swollen, cheeks streaked with tear stains, hair falling in his face, clothes rumpled, dotted in flakes of his murdered lover's blood; and here she was, nearly immaculate save for her hat being crooked and a few strands of gel-caked hair falling out of place. Her makeup wasn't smeared, and looking closely at her, he didn't see even the slightest sheen of sweat on her brow. <em>Couldn't have rushed over here too frantically, then,</em> he thought darkly, jaws involuntarily setting into a scowl. He knew he shouldn't direct any bitterness toward Lyra--frantic or not, she had shown up, and now here she was visibly worried about him. It was just hard not to be bitter when... well, there she was with her perfect life, and here he was at rock bottom.</p><p>Gradually, when Tucker didn't respond to her questions, Lyra trailed off, face crumpling. She swallowed hard, then took a tentative step toward him, reaching out a hand that he flinched away from. He regretted the instinctive reaction at once, as she retracted her hand and bit her lip with a frown. <em>It's not that I don't want your comfort</em>, he was too proud to say aloud. <em>It's just been a long time since someone else's hand has touched me. </em>Ashamed with himself, he lowered his head and turned away from her. If Lyra wanted to turn around and walk back out the door, he wouldn't blame her. He wouldn't have wanted to be around himself right then either.</p><p>Nevertheless, he heard her shuffle closer to him--close enough that he could smell the candy-scented perfume she was doused in--and then felt her hand pressing down gently but firmly on his shoulder. The touch was like a shock to his system, but not a violent one. Tucker just froze, staring straight ahead, as his cousin hesitantly and very awkwardly moved in and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him into an embrace of sorts.</p><p>"Listen, Tucker, I..." Lyra sighed, nestling her chin atop Tucker's head amidst his unruly hair. "I'm sorry I haven't been keeping up with you. A lot of things have happened to me. Seriously, really crazy things, like... well, I'd say like you wouldn't believe, but this is the ancient aliens guy I'm talking to, isn't it? Or did you ever put those theories behind you?"</p><p>With her voice so close to his ear, he could definitely hear something different about it. It sounded just ever-so-slightly tinnier, more mechanical. Vaguely reminiscent of one of those singing holograms from overseas. It was only a slight difference, but definitely there. Noticing that discrepancy distracted Tucker enough that his cousin's actual words took a moment to sink in. When they did, he blinked, even more amazed. This was... this was so much more caring and compassionate than he had come to expect from her. If it weren't for her getup, he'd think he'd traveled back in time and was talking to Lyra's younger self, before she got famous.</p><p>"W-well--" Tucker coughed when he tried to speak. It felt like there was a cheese grater stuffed down his throat. After a bit more coughing, he managed to clear his throat enough to respond, albeit in a weak and reedy voice. "Well, if we're being honest, I've always gone against the grain when it comes to the whole 'ancient aliens' idea. Many of my fellow theorists believe they were responsible for the pyramids, or other ancient wonders that can be chalked up to pure human ingenuity. I, on the other hand, know the truth."</p><p>"Oh, yeah?" Even without turning to look at Lyra, he could tell from her inflection that she was arching an eyebrow.</p><p>"Indeed! The real ancient aliens crash-landed on earth in the prehistoric era, in an impact that most likely killed most of them," he explained. He straightened his posture and adjusted his glasses, all sorrow momentarily forgotten in favour of rattling off his well-rehearsed lecture. "The survivors, or possibly even just one lone survivor, met a group of prehistoric humans. No doubt they had trouble understanding each other at first, but they formed a bond, and it eventually resulted in them having offspring. This coupling's lineage continues to this day, meaning that distant descendants of aliens walk among us to this day!"</p><p>"Uh-huh," Lyra said flatly. At least it sounded like she was going for a flat tone... but he could hear the smile in her voice, and that made him smile, too. "And what proof do you have of all this?"</p><p>"Well, you see, DNA tests of several modern-day humans show faint traces of what could only be alien DNA. Of course, the alien genes are highly diluted now, and the alien's modern descendants would probably look and act no differently from you or I, but those alien genes still exist nonetheless."</p><p>He paused, holding his breath in anticipation of... he wasn't sure what. Well, no, that wasn't true. He only realized what he was anticipating when it didn't come, and the silence that filled the room carved out a pit in his stomach. He really had forgotten, for a moment there... he'd been waiting to hear a mechanical hum of contemplation, followed by a little affirmative beep of approval, and the pixels on the screen before him rearranging into a smiling face. But that was a reaction his theories would never receive again.</p><p>As the realization of his loss sunk in yet again, Tucker slumped forward with a low, mournful groan. Lyra tried to hold him upright for a moment, as though by keeping his physical form in the right position she could keep his spirits up as well, but then she let go of him and shuffled a few feet away. She didn't say anything else, which he was grateful for. He saw now that she could only serve to momentarily distract him from the pain. There was nothing she, or anyone, could do or say that would actually <em>help</em>. He wasn't even sure why he'd called her in the first place.</p><p>After a long moment, though, Lyra cleared her throat and stood up, smoothing out her skirt and readjusting her hat. "So, um, we should probably go somewhere," she began. If he weren't so miserable, Tucker would have laughed at how awkward his usually cool cousin sounded; she sounded nearly as socially inept as himself. "I mean, it's not like we can stay here, right? It's dark, and cold, and--if we're being honest--creepy as hell. Let's get out of here."</p><p>Every word from her was like a fresh knife to the heart. Tucker bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood in order to keep from cursing at her. <em>It's not her fault</em>, he told himself. <em>She doesn't know. You haven't explained anything to her, not properly</em>. And either way, she was right. They couldn't stay there. Remaining at the arcade forever like a dog waiting for its never-returning master wasn't going to bring the arcade machine back to life. The man Tucker loved was gone. There was nothing to be gained from being at the arcade any longer.</p><p>He let out a long sigh of remorse, taking one last good look at the ruined machine who he had come to love so deeply over the course of the past year. He gazed at the broken screen, breathed in its scent, ran a hand down its smooth surface--long since gone cold, but still damp with spray paint. Then he took a deep breath in, took off his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt while using the other sleeve to rub at his eyes--a pointless maneuver, given that his tears had already dried, but it was the principle of the thing--and, slowly and shakily, pushed himself to his feet before turning to face his cousin.</p><p>"Where can we go?" he asked.</p><p>"Uh, let's see..." Lyra crossed her arms and chewed her lip, brow furrowing. Then her face lit up with realization. "Oh! My bandmates are out getting drinks at that bar place down the road, and then we're gonna go for dinner together later. Wanna come catch up? I'm sure they'd love to meet you!"</p><p>A wry smile tugged at his lips. "Are you sure they'd want me there?"</p><p>"Well... probably? Look, it doesn't matter anyway," she said with a shrug. "We're family, and it's Christmas, and--look, clearly you're going through it, so--let's just have dinner together, okay?"</p><p>He had to admit, she did make a good point. Worst case scenario, he makes a fool out of himself in front of Lyra and her friends, which is no worse than all the times he's made a fool of himself before. Best case scenario, he and his cousin properly reconnect, and maybe he even manages to actually befriend her bandmates. Okay, that outcome admittedly wasn't very likely, but still... being at rock-bottom means there's no place to go but up, right?</p><p>"Okay," he said slowly, hoping he wouldn't regret it. "Let's go."</p><p>As they walked in silence out of the old arcade and down the street to the diner, Tucker wondered why Lyra didn't shiver in the cold, especially when she wasn't dressed as warmly as him. Even in a sweater vest and corduroy pants, he was feeling the chill, but there she was in her short skirt doing just fine... still, he tried to push the questions from his mind and not overthink it. Getting overly invested in explaining away all the subtle oddities in life was his passion, but it was also what had driven him and Lyra apart to begin with. Best not to concoct any conspiracy theories about her now. (Unless, of course, more suspicious things about her started popping up. But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, it was time to attempt to socialize like an average citizen.)</p><hr/><p>The evening passed far more pleasantly than Lyra could have imagined. Which is to say, it was no different from any other slightly awkward and vaguely tense Christmas get-together with relatives you hadn't seen for a while.</p><p>Tucker didn't talk much about conspiracy theories, and when the conversation started drifting in that direction and her bandmates started looking uncomfortable, she'd give him a little kick under the table to let him know not to go there. They pointedly did not talk about what had happened to either of them since their last meeting. Tucker didn't tell Lyra about what he'd been doing in the old arcade, or why that broken arcade had organs spilling out of it, and why he'd been crying so hard about it. Similarly, Lyra didn't tell him about the fact that she was undead, and whenever the conversation started veering in that direction she made a point of gently but firmly steering the topic in another direction.</p><p>Cindy seemed to like Tucker quite a bit, which she probably wouldn't have if Tucker were acting more like his usual self; she kept leaning over the table towards him, batting her eyes. Tucker remained oblivious, but he was alone in that regard. Eventually it got to a point where Lyra had to quietly pull Cindy aside and talk to her.</p><p>"Hey, so, I'm glad you like him so much, but you're not gonna get what you're looking for out of him," Lyra explained in a whisper, hitching her thumb back toward their booth. "And not just because he's a ridiculous dweeb. He, y'know, doesn't really swing your way."</p><p>"Oh..." Cindy sighed, shoulders slumping. "Are you sure?"</p><p>"I mean, I was the first person he ever came out to, so... yeah, pretty damn sure."</p><p>Lyra paused, shooting a glance over her shoulder at her cousin. He appeared to currently be engrossed in a conversation with Neil, who was showing off his magic eight ball. Come to think of it, of course those two would hit it off. They were both equally full of absurd stories. She'd never forget the day her friend had come up to her and proposed that they start a band, when he had literally never shown any interest in music before, only building little science-fiction-y gadgets that she was pretty sure didn't actually do anything. Apparently his inspiration for suddenly wanting to start a band was that he had... gone back in time and started a band with some dinosaurs? And now that he'd narrowly returned to the present alive, he wanted to honour the legacy of the prehistoric creatures who had taught him how to play instruments by continuing to make music. Yeah, sure, very believable story. About as believable as the stuff Tucker had been saying earlier about what ancient caveman history supposedly showed.</p><p>"...You think he has his eyes on Neil?" Cindy asked tentatively, pulling Lyra out of her recollection. Clearly she had followed Lyra's gaze, and the conclusion she'd come to was understandable, except...</p><p>"No, I don't think so," she said. "When Tucker has his eye on someone, you can tell. Believe me."</p><p>When they headed back to their booth and sat back down, sure enough, Neil was just wrapping up a thrilling account of his dinosaur story. Tucker was leaning forward, eyes bright and alert, but (fortunately) nowhere near as wide-eyed and trembling with excitement as he got when he was infatuated with someone. Meanwhile, in the window seat, Diablo was leaning back in his chair and whistling a tune slightly off-key. Even after five years in the band, the guitar was still the only instrument that man could play, which put him at about the same level as the mediocre guy Lyra had dated in high school minus the ability to skateboard. Still, they would never kick him out the way the first band he'd tried to join had. They were a team--and, as much as Lyra hated to be overly sentimental, they were friends. Good friends. She was glad to have them.</p><p>"A toast!" Lyra announced as she sat back down, picking up her glass and raising it. (It was water, because she couldn't get drunk or taste much of anything, and didn't want to waste money on a fancy beverage that she wouldn't want to get anything out of.) "To us, the most epic band of all time... and to friendship and family!"</p><p>"Yeah!" Neil cheered, clinking his magic eight ball against Lyra's glass and then repeating the gesture with his actual glass (non-alcoholic fruit punch, which he drank with a straw).</p><p>"Hell yeah," Diablo agreed, tipping his already nearly empty beer glass toward her. "Here's to another five years of great performances."</p><p>"Here's to another <em>ten </em>years," Cindy added with a giggle. She reached across the table to clink her glass of white wine with Diablo's. "Maybe more!"</p><p>"Hopefully more, I'd say," Lyra said with a grin. "Let's keep going 'till we're all old and grey, how's that sound?"</p><p>Her bandmates voiced their cheerful agreement, and they drank. Of course, none of them pointed out the obvious--that Lyra would never be old and gray. Her body would never age the way a living human body did, and if it did end up degrading over time, then it would be in a much less pleasant way (well, that was more of a <em>when</em> than an <em>if</em>, really, but she tried not to think about it too much. Instead she just sipped her water and wished desperately that she wasn't immune to alcohol.) Tucker drank as well, taking a sip of the grapefruit beer he'd ordered, only to immediately screw his face up. Lyra stifled a laugh; that was another thing that hadn't changed since they were young. It was a good thing he hated the taste of alcohol, too, because he was a huge lightweight. She didn't want him getting drunk and crying about how the mothman had stood him up or whatever in front of her bandmates.</p><p>So, yes, all in all it was a pretty fun time. Not the best Christmas ever or anything, but it was alright. As the evening was winding down, Neil surprised everyone by pulling out three small gift-wrapped bundles which he presented to the other band members. They unwrapped them to reveal little ceramic keychains in the shape of dinosaurs--a brontosaurus for Cindy, a triceratops for Diablo, and an iguanadon for Lyra, he explained proudly, although when asked he couldn't or didn't explain the reasoning behind his choices. As taken-aback as she was by the unexpected gift, Lyra could appreciate the craftmanship of the little trinkets, which had a distinctively homemade look to them. Apparently her other bandmates were even more moved; Cindy started crying right there at the table, and Diablo suddenly excused himself to go step outside for a minute, which meant he was also going to cry and didn't want the others to see.</p><p>Then again, maybe there was more to it than that. When Diablo came back in a couple minutes later, he was holding a gift bag which he set down on the table with a flourish. Neil and Cindy gasped in amazement, while Lyra stifled a groan. Not that she wasn't happy to be getting stuff, but... geez... Her gaze wandered over to Tucker, who was currently chewing on his lip and worrying the corner of the drink menu between his thumb and forefinger. This must've been pretty damn awkward for him. Poor bastard.</p><p>"Now, I don't know if I've ever told you guys this, but I used to grow my own strawberries," Diablo announced as he pulled out several small items from the gift bag. "But I feel like a fruit-bearing plant would be a big responsibility for a first-timer, so... instead, here's some flowers that are easy to grow for beginners! Take your pick, guys--one each."</p><p>With that explanation, Lyra was able to identify the items he was presenting as seed packets. <em>Huh</em>. After taking a moment to look over the proffered packets, which he held out toward them like a magician asking you to pick a card, she selected a bright orange flower that, according to the label, was called a nasturtium. Neil selected sunflowers, and Cindy reached for a packet of morning glory seeds, only for Diablo to suddenly retract them and instead shove another packet at her.</p><p>"Ah! For you... perhaps... sweet pea?" He practically thrust the seed packet in question into her hands, leaving her blinking in surprise, before turning to Tucker and presenting the remaining selection of packets to him. "And, hey, I bought more than needed, so... you want any?"</p><p>"Oh! Um, sure." Tucker leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. "Let's see... oh, marigolds? Those are always useful to have around. Or pansies? Then again, day lillies are nice too..."</p><p>While Tucker was making his selection, Cindy leaned over to whisper something to Neil, who frowned and shrugged in response. Lyra sat back and watched, bemused.</p><p>And then, because of course, it turned out Cindy had gifts for them as well. Namely, she gave each of them a burned CD. "Not my own music, luckily," she clarified with a laugh of self-deprecation while they examined the homemade cover art on the cases. "Seriously, my old stuff from before I joined you guys was a mess. But this is some of the stuff that inspired me to start making music in the first place."</p><p>"Awesome," said Neil.</p><p>Simultaneously, Diablo ducked his head and muttered, "Well, I'm sure your old music is fine... I mean, I'd listen to it..."</p><p>"Geez, guys," Lyra groaned, looking at the items laid out on the table before her. "You're making me feel like such an asshole for not buying you guys anything."</p><p>"Oh, that's okay, Lyra," Neil said quickly. "Just getting to be friends with you and hang out with you is enough of a present--a miracle, even. Right, guys?"</p><p>He looked to Cindy and Diablo, who nodded in agreement. Lyra sighed. As corny a sentiment as it was, her bandmates' words were technically completely accurate. By all accounts, she should not have been alive. By some definitions, she still wasn't. But here she was, and here they were, and... yeah, it really was pretty fucking great when you thought about it like that.</p><p>"Alright, you guys, here's my gift to you," she decided. "Another round of drinks, on me. How's that sound?"</p><p>Naturally, she was met with uproarious cheers. Tucker remained quiet, and she made a mental note to apologize to him later for how left-out he must have been feeling, but for now she was more than happy to get swept up in a moment of festivity.</p><p>Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily through the dark sky onto the streets. A few people walked by now and then, and if any of them paid any mind to the empty old arcade with the broken window, none of them went inside, and certainly none of them discovered the destroyed arcade machine within. The robbers responsible for the break-in were at home, with their own families, convincing themselves that the events of the previous night had been just a dream and that the blood on their sneakers was just a coincidence. The event wouldn't make the news until the next day, and even then, many would write it off as a hoax. Lyra herself was already beginning to doubt what she'd seen a few hours ago. For now, she was with her bandmates, and they were having a good time. That was all that should matter.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Got no prospects, it's the snow's fault</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I promise that later chapters are going to contain events other than just epic depression moments (tm) but, y'know, sometimes things get worse before they get better. Also, if you're wondering what year/decade this is set in... don't worry about it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tucker spent the final week of the old year and the beginning of the new one in his small apartment, alone as always. He wound up getting a hangover from his raucous holiday get-together with Lyra and her friends, and his memory of the whole encounter was fuzzy at best, although it left a vaguely pleasant impression upon his brain. However, any jumbled scraps of memory of that night were overshadowed by the crystal-clear memory of what had preceded it.</p>
<p>Funny how that worked. You could have a decent time, meet some interesting new people, and barely remember it... but the image of your lover's horrific demise would be burned forever into your mind. He could still see it every time he shut his eyes, which was part of the reason why he wasn't getting much sleep. (Not that he'd exactly gotten a healthy amount of sleep before the sudden tragic loss of his boyfriend, but now it was even worse.)</p>
<p>Lyra didn't call him at all during that stretch of time. No doubt she was busy. Obviously none of her bandmates called him either, as none of them had exchanged numbers with him. In fact, nobody called or tried to get in touch at all, which was completely normal and to be expected. It was just that the absence of human connection suddenly became a lot more noticeable when contrasted against having actually gotten a chance to socialize a few nights before.</p>
<p>The days crept by at a snail's pace, yet simultaneously blended together. Tucker had nothing to do, and he didn't even have the energy to devote himself to his usual activities. He mostly just stayed in his apartment. Scratch that, he <em>exclusively</em> just stayed in his apartment. Going outside was pointless. There was nothing for him out there, not anymore. He certainly couldn't bear to go anywhere near the old arcade, but if he ever went for a walk, he knew from experience that his feet would lead him there out of habit. The story that the newspaper had run on the 26th was already a painful enough reminder. (<em>"Break-in at abandoned arcade results in property damage and possible murder--police still investigating"</em>. That was one way of saying "we found the remains of a half-human/half-machine and don't know what the fuck it is".)</p>
<p>He was lying on the couch staring up at the ceiling, as he'd been doing all week, when his phone rang. The sound startled him the way a gunshot would startle a deer. His eyes snapped open at once, while his body seized up and his mind blanked. In that moment, all his grief and misery--and all the love and happiness that had preceded it, too, for that matter--vanished, replaced by pure second nature: if someone calls him back, then by god, he answers the phone!</p>
<p>In a mad scramble, Tucker fell off the couch and grabbed his phone off its hook. He raised it to his ear with one shaky hand while adjusting his crooked glasses with the other (in his frazzled state, the fact that the caller wouldn't be able to see him over the phone didn't occur to him). His heart was hammering away as he stammered out a greeting with a voice that was rusty from disuse.</p>
<p>"H-hello?"</p>
<p>"Oh, thank fucking god," he heard his cousin's ever-familiar voice breath on the other end of the line. Then, in a belligerent grumble: "Took me long enough to remember your number. Who still uses landline phones, anyway?"</p>
<p>"It's not just any landline," Tucker said, for lack of any better response. "It's my touch-tone--"</p>
<p>"Yeah, who cares what kind of phone you have?" Lyra snapped--aparently having immediately forgotten that she was the one who brought it up in the first place. Frowning, Tucker opened his mouth to call her out on her hypocrisy, but she cut him off before he could speak. "Point is, I've been wanting to get ahold of you all week. I was, I dunno, kinda expecting that we'd keep in touch... when I didn't hear from you, I thought maybe..."</p>
<p>She trailed off into a mumble at the end, then went quiet. Tucker hummed thoughtfully to himself, contemplating her words. Firstly, she'd been <em>wanting</em> to get ahold of him--not actively trying? And she had thought, not necessarily hoped, that they would keep in touch. Presumably, she'd been expecting him to phone her incessantly. That was the type of behavior he could admit to being guilty of in the past. Unfortunately for Lyra, he'd been in too miserable a state for the thought of initiating a conversation to even cross his mind. What could he say? What good would calling anyone do? In all his life, all the phone calls he made never amounted to anything. Besides, clearly Lyra had a fun life with her band. He didn't think she'd appreciate being bothered by him.</p>
<p>Tucker was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't respond to his cousin. After several moments of silence stretched between them, Lyra spoke up again in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.</p>
<p>"You still there, Tuck?"</p>
<p>He blinked, surprised by how apprehensive--nervous, even--she sounded. "Y-yes, of course. Why, you don't think I'd hang up on you, do you?"</p>
<p>"No, I guess not." Lyra's tone was hard to read just then; less so when she added with a note of strained cheerfulness: "So, uh, we're playing a new year's show at the auditorium--my band, I mean."</p>
<p>"Oh..." Tucker blinked, trying to remember what day it was. "Is it the new year already?"</p>
<p>"Uh, yeah. Anyway, listen," she went on, "I wouldn't mind seeing you in the crowd, if you'd like... hell, if money's an issue, I can even let you in for free."</p>
<p>Money certainly would have been an issue; Tucker wasn't sure whether to be grateful to Lyra for preemptively solving it for him, or to scowl at her for bringing it up. The bigger issue was the question of whether or not he wanted to come.</p>
<p>He chewed his lip, eyebrows knitting together in deep thought. <em>Her bandmates did seem nice... I wouldn't mind supporting their career... </em>But come to think of it, he had never actually heard them play. What if they played some sort of dreadful grunge or heavy metal, or that high-pitched sped-up oversaturated bebop that played on the radio these days? And what if Lyra tried to talk to him after the show, or what if she didn't, and why was she inviting him in the first place, and...?</p>
<p>"Ohh..." He sighed, shoulders slumping with the weight of a difficult decision. But at the end of the day, how could he turn down such a generous offer from his cousin? "I suppose I'll try to find the time."</p>
<p>"Ah, yeah, must be a pretty busy life, all that digging around trying to unearth conspiracy theories," Lyra said. He couldn't tell whether or not she was being sarcastic; maybe she couldn't tell either. "Well, anyway, it's at the auditorium tonight like I said, 8:00 PM. Hope to see you there."</p>
<p>She hung up before Tucker had the chance to say goodbye, which was just as well, because he had nothing else to say. Letting out a sigh, he set the phone back on the hook and slumped back down onto the couch. Above him, the ceiling's swirling plaster patterns remained unchanged. It became dizzying to look at after a while, really. Sighing once more, he ran his fingers through his raggedy hair. It occurred to him that he hadn't been doing a very good job keeping up with hygiene lately. <em>Better rectify that if I'm to attend Lyra's concert. She wouldn't want me showing up looking like this.</em></p>
<p>For now, though, he was simply too exhausted to move. He shut his eyes and drifted back into the dark gray void halfway between insomnia and nightmare that he'd been trapped in for the past week.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The crowd was a churning sea of excitement, emulating the feeling in Lyra's gut as she surveyed them. It was a phantom feeling, of course, like pain from an amputated limb; the body was far less active after death, but psychosomatic sensations persisted nonetheless. In the darkness of the auditorium, illuminated by dazzling stagelights, it was hard to make out individual faces. She scanned the audience for her cousin, but she couldn't make out Tucker's familiar features anywhere amongst the gathered onlookers, whose cheers and shouts combined into a deafening roar as she walked to the front of the stage and grabbed her microphone.</p>
<p>After taking a moment to let her bandmates get into position behind her, and then several more moments to wait for the applause to simmer down, she still couldn't spot him. Lyra tried not to frown. He never had exactly promised to be there... hell, maybe he really was too busy doing conspiracy stuff. She didn't even know why she was disappointed not to see him in the crowd. Having talked on the phone with him the day before, she knew he was okay, and she had never once before wished for the presence of her annoying little cousin at any of her shows.</p>
<p>Anyway, there was no time to mull it over, because everyone was in place and it was time to start the show. Lyra tapped the microphone, cleared her throat, and took a deep breath that she technically didn't need to take before addressing the excited crowd.</p>
<p>"Hey, everybody, how's it going tonight?" As expected, she was met with a cacophony of cheers and shouts. In the front row, she thought she heard someone yell that they loved her. "Hell yeah! Alright then, guys, let's get this show on the road!"</p>
<p>She gave the signal with a snap of her fingers. On cue, her bandmates began playing the raucous opening instrumental to their first song of the night. Lyra counted down in her head, tapping her foot to the beat, until it was time to launch into singing.</p>
<p>From there, the show passed in a blur of exhilaration. The performance went off with only a couple of hitches, all of which they stumbled over only briefly before finding their footing again and carrying on, and in general the band functioned as always like a well-oiled machine. Lyra's heart soared with every note she belted out, backed up by her bandmates' stellar instrumentation. The crowd went wild over and over again. It was a jumbled haze of excitement and success, jumping up and down and screaming in delight, roses tossed at them from the crowd by their plethora of admirers. Like every time a performance went well, Lyra never wanted the moment to end; also like every time, it flew by faster than she could imagine.</p>
<p>"Okay, guys, for our last couple of songs we're going to take requests," she announced as the hour was growing late. The sea of cheers she was met with was overwhelmingly shrill, to the point where she had to suppress the urge to wince. She spoke as loudly as she could to make herself heard over the audience. "Now, obviously we don't know every song ever written. So try to request something that you can reasonably expect a band like us to know, okay? Okay. So, we'll be doing five requests in total. Raise your hand if you've got a song you'd like to hear from us."</p>
<p>As expected, nearly every hand in the auditorium skyrocketed into the air. Lyra groaned internally. How was she supposed to choose just five out of all these very, <em>very</em> eager fans? As much as she liked being successful, sometimes she envied smaller bands... dealing with fans must have been a lot easier for them.</p>
<p>"You there!" she finally decided, jabbing her finger toward a small group of young men in the front row, one of whom had his hand raised. "In the plaid. What would you like to hear from us?"</p>
<p>"Could you do the ghostbusters theme?"</p>
<p>"Hmm..." Lyra glanced over her shoulder at her bandmates to gauge their reactions. "What do you think, guys? Can we pull that one off?"</p>
<p>Neil nodded eagerly, and Diablo gave a thumbs up. Cindy chewed her lip, looking apprehensive, but Diablo leaned over and laid his hand atop hers, whispering something, and she straightened up and gave Lyra an affirmative nod. Lyra, who knew the song decently well herself despite never having actually played it before, was confident that she could sing all the words in the right order; she gave an "ok" sign to her bandmates and turned back to the audience with a grin.</p>
<p>"Ghostbusters it is, then! Not exactly seasonal, but I hope you enjoy."</p>
<p>They managed to get through it and three other songs without much issue. One audience member requested "American Pie", another requested "Piano Man", and another requested "One Week", which Lyra was reluctant to perform, but it was ubiquitous enough that she couldn't exactly feign ignorance about not knowing it. They messed up a couple of times, sang a verse or two out of order, but the crowd didn't seem to mind regardless of how much it made Lyra cringe at herself.</p>
<p>Finally, with only one song request left, she scrutinized the sea of raised hands for nearly a full minute before giving up and just choosing at random.</p>
<p>"You there, with the--"</p>
<p>She broke off, eyes going wide, as she spotted the person sitting a couple rows back from where she was pointing. <em>Holy shit... did he just show up? Or has he been here the whole time?</em> Either way, there he was, after she'd gone the whole time thinking he was a no-show. Well, wasn't that just typical.</p>
<p>Out of spite moreso than familial obligation, Lyra slightly adjusted the angle her arm was extended so that she was pointing directly at Tucker. "You there, with the glasses and the bowtie. Yeah, you," she added with a crooked grin as her cousin blinked owlishly up at her from toward the back of the audience. He didn't even have his hand raised. Singling him out would probably piss a few other audience members off, but fuck it. "Got any requests for us tonight?"</p>
<p>"Um, well, I..." She had to strain her ears to hear his startled stammer. "T-tuh-- 'Telephone Line' by ELO?"</p>
<p>Despite herself, a sudden ache took hold of her heart when he said the song title. At the same time, she wanted to roll her eyes. Yeah, of course he'd suggest that song. Five years later, ten years later, fifteen, twenty... however much time passed, he never changed. That was one of the biggest problems with him, but also something she envied him for.</p>
<p>"We'll see what we can do for you," she said. Her voice came out a lot softer than she intended. Turning to her bandmates, she asked, "Think you can play that one?"</p>
<p>"Uh..."</p>
<p>Her bandmates exchanged apprehensive looks. She realized that the song in question was less widely known than the previous requests they'd gotten; it would make sense if none of the others knew it. Her and Tucker's experiences, after all, were hardly universal. Sure enough, each of her bandmates in turn gave a slight shake of their head; she thought she saw Neil mouth an apology.</p>
<p>"Uh, sorry, I don't think we can do that one tonight," Lyra said, struggling to speak around the sudden tightness in her throat. "Any other requests?"</p>
<p>There wasn't even the briefest disappointed murmur from the crowd before everyone raised their hands again. The last song of the night ended up being "Africa", which they performed with as much practised musical skill as always. It got a roaring reception from the crowd. Lyra bowed with a flourish, then set her mic back on its stand and stepped aside to let her bandmates soak up the rest of the applause as she ducked offstage.</p>
<p>Immediately upon stepping off the stage and into the audience section, she was swarmed by fans trying to grab at her. That was another thing that less successful artists must not have had to worry about: overzealous fans--screaming her name at the top of their lungs, fighting to the front of the crowd for a chance to touch her, making creepy comments online about her hands and throat. Lyra shuddered as she ducked to avoid someone grabbing at the tuft of hair that covered her face. What would these people think if they knew what her carefully arranged hairstyle, and meticulously applied foundation, helped to conceal? Would they still love her if they could smell the stench of death on her?</p>
<p>Pushing her way through the crowd to where she had seen Tucker standing, she called out his name, but her voice was swallowed up like a raindrop falling into an ocean by the overwhelming drone of the crowd's shouts and cheers. <em>Damn it!</em> She couldn't see him anywhere. <em>Come on, Tucker, where'd you run off to?</em></p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Outside the auditorium, it was pitch-black, or rather it would have been were they not in a big city. As it was, the darkness was punctured by an infinite number of streetlights and neon signs. A bone-chilling mix of rain and snow drizzled from the sky, keeping the normally busy streets empty save for a few stragglers running for shelter and a couple of smokers hunkered down in a nearby alleyway. The smell of their cigarette smoke made Tucker cough, but he wasn't about to ask them to put their cigarettes out. Everyone coped with life in their own ways, some less healthy than others; he understood that better than anyone.</p>
<p>He let out a shaky breath, staring up at the black mass of clouds hanging overhead. There was something almost apocalyptic about the sky's appearance. But the world wasn't going to end anytime soon. He would know if it was, or at least he liked to think he'd know. Then again, recent history showed that he wasn't always as good at predicting catastrophic events as he would like to think. In any case, it was really fucking cold out. A shudder wracked his body, despite his attempts to keep warm by jogging on the spot and running his hands up and down his arms. Although he was standing under the eaves of the auditorium, ostensibly out of the sleet, he'd still managed to get wet enough that his button-up shirt was completely drenched and plastered to his skin. At least now nobody would be able to see if he started crying.</p>
<p><em>What was I thinking?</em> he wondered, grinding his teeth in self-directed frustration. <em>Of course she wouldn't remember that song. It'</em><em>s been over a decade.</em></p>
<p>Once the muffled sounds of music from within the auditorium had died down, Tucker walked away, unsure of why he had lingered by the building for so long in the first place. He had to head home. There was nothing here for him. Once again he had to wonder what the point of Lyra's invitation had been, and wonder even more so why he'd bothered taking her up on it.</p>
<p>He moved down the sidewalk at as brisk of a pace as he could manage. It became harder to walk, he noticed, the further he went. Not because the wind was particularly strong or he was up to his knees in snow--it was a bustling metropolis; of course they didn't let that much snow pile up on the streets--but because of a deep-seated coldness that took hold in his muscles, making it gradually harder to move his legs. As he continued walking and the sleet transitioned into a full-on downpour, the sting of the cold seemed to relax its grip on him. Then, while he was rounding a corner, a harsh wind blew by, whipping strands of frozen hair into his face. Tucker winced and raised his hands to bat his hair away from his face, and only then did he notice how numb his hands had gotten.</p>
<p>"Oh, dear," he murmured to himself, his breath puffing up in front of him as he spoke. "This doesn't bode well."</p>
<p>He went to take another step, only to find that his legs would no longer cooperate. Instead he stumbled and fell forward, tripping over his own feet on his way down, and landed on the sidewalk with an undignified "oof!"</p>
<p>His glasses clattered off his face and skittered across the sidewalk. Suddenly his eyes were hit by the cold that his glasses, which many people he knew had charitably described as "a bit clunky", had been shielding him from up until then. Tucker screwed his eyes shut with a whimper and, while reaching for his dropped glasses, tried to push himself to his feet. He thought he felt his fingers brush against something, but it was hard to tell. As the wind picked up and the night air grew progressively colder, he increasingly found that his body wasn't moving very well at all. It felt like he was...</p>
<p>Like he was frozen in ice.</p>
<p>"Oh, I see," he laughed, because as he realized it, it seemed very funny to him even though it really shouldn't have been. Rather, he would have laughed, but only a faint wheezing sound was able to escape his blue-tinted lips. "I got drenched, and now I'm freezing. Well, that's just typical."</p>
<p>Before his eyelashes could freeze shut, he reluctantly blinked open his eyes to see how close to his apartment he'd gotten. He had the thought that he could call someone (a cab??) and ask them to take him the rest of the way home. Of course that wouldn't work, because his fingers were not in the right state to be dialing a phone number right now, but it was nice to entertain the thought anyway.</p>
<p>When he looked, however, he found that the street he was on was deserted. Not close to his apartment, then--that was in a busy part of town. No, this was...</p>
<p>Shit. He knew where this was. Oh, he'd gone and done it, hadn't he? Walked there without even meaning to, just as he'd feared. To the old arcade.</p>
<p>The broken window was boarded up. So was the door. Strips of glaring yellow-and-black caution tape criss-crossed the establishment. For some reason, it made Tucker think of an insect caught in a spiderweb. Behind the barrier of tape and wooden boards, he wondered, did his lovers' remains still lay on the arcade floor? Or had it been cleaned up, all the blood scrubbed away as though it had never been there at all? He wasn't sure which prospect was worse. He didn't want to know... and he supposed he never would.</p>
<p>As heavy flakes of half-frozen water continued to pelt his unresponsive body, Tucker let his vision unfocus. The image of the boarded-up arcade blurred before his eyes, and then it and the snow and the sidewalk all blended into a dull static which gradually faded to black.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Tucker!" Lyra whipped her head back and forth, looking up and down the empty sidewalk stretching out to either side. "Where the hell are you?"</p>
<p>There was, predictably, no answer. The sidewalk was covered in too many sets of footprints, many of which were partially covered by the fresh snowfall, to tell which ones were Tucker's. Muttering curses under her breath, Lyra took off down the sidewalk in the only direction that made sense to go. It was only a hunch, but she had nothing else to go on. And she knew her cousin. He was, if nothing else, a creature of habit.</p>
<p>As she made her way to the arcade, praying that either she was right and she would find him there or she was completely wrong and he'd made it safely back to his apartment, her pace escalated from a brisk walk to a jog to a full-on, frantic sprint. With the inability to feel an ache in her muscles or be out of breath, the only thing that normally held her back from running like this was the danger of falling apart. Indeed, she could already feel the tickle of frost beginning to form on her exposed forearms and shins. But she couldn't stop now. If the freezing temperature was bad for her, how bad would it be for an ordinary person dressed the way Tucker had been when she'd glimpsed him in the audience? Well, it'd be pretty fucking bad.</p>
<p>Lyra's worst fears were confirmed when she rounded the corner onto the street that the old arcade was on. There, on the sidewalk outside the arcade, was a shape that she at first mistook for a piece of roadkill. When she got closer, she realized that it was something worse. There, half-buried beneath freshly fallen snow, was the ice-crusted body of her cousin.</p>
<p>"Oh, jesus christ," she hissed.</p>
<p>The icy sensation that washed over her then was what she imagined her body would physically feel like if she could feel the cold. Hands shaking, she pried Tucker off the ground--he was almost frozen to the sidewalk, which she let out a high-pitched laugh upon realizing even though it really, really was not funny--and propped him up in her arms. As she did so, a wispy rattle of a breath escaped from his lips. Lyra froze in place, wondering if she had imagined it. Tentatively, terrified by the question but unable to avoid the answer, she pressed her ear against his chest.</p>
<p>There. Yes. Faint, fragile, unsteady, but... yes. A heartbeat.</p>
<p>Immediately, a tidal wave of relief crashed over her. Gasping out a tearless sob, Lyra pulled her cousin's unconscious, half-frozen form into her arms and clutched him so tightly that his arms would probably bruise. The relief was almost immediately followed by a burst of rage.</p>
<p>"You're a fucking asshole," she managed to choke out around the painful mass of emotions clogging up her throat. "You know that? Just the fucking worst."</p>
<p>He didn't respond. She'd half-expected him to wake up when she insulted him and retaliate with some witty remark; that was probably what would have happened if this was the climax of a movie. But nothing like that happened. And if she didn't get him somewhere safe and warm him up quickly, she realized, he was never going to wake up.</p>
<p>"Seriously," she said anyway as she picked him up and slung him over her shoulders like a sack of produce, "Don't you fucking dare pull a stunt like this again." Then, more quietly, even though she knew he wouldn't be hear her either way: "I already owe my agent enough favours."</p>
<hr/>
<p>The first thing he thought as he lapsed back into consciousness was that he was sinking, like a wristwatch carelessly dropped into the ocean. His body felt heavy, waterlogged. And indeed, as his senses gradually sharpened into focus, he realized he wasn't too far off. There was definitely water around him. Or, more accurately, he was in water. Hot water--he winced--bordering on scalding. Not a pile of snowmelt, then.</p>
<p>Groaning, Tucker raised his hands to rub at his eyes. Even before actually opening his eyes, a bright glow penetrated his eyelids. When he did open his eyes and look around, he found that the source of the glow was a fluorescent light above his head, positioned on a white stucco ceiling. Different than the pattern on his own ceiling. How'd he get here?</p>
<p>As memories began to trickle back into his mind, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he could move and feel his fingers. He could even feel his feet. <em>Guess I got lucky </em>is what he would have thought, except Tucker didn't believe in luck, or coincidences (although, secretly, he did believe in fate). Someone had picked him up off the street (literally) and taken him here. And in doing so, they probably... oh, who was he kidding? They <em>definitely</em> saved his life. Who would do that, and why?</p>
<p>Tucker sat up. Apparently he moved too fast, because stars danced across his vision and he nearly blacked out; he lost his balance and had to catch himself on the rim of the tub. Tub? Yes, of course, he was in a bathtub. An impressively large one, too, he realized as he looked around and got a better feel for his surroundings. And his head had been propped up by a couple of pillows, carefully arranged to keep his nose and mouth elevated above the water while letting most of his head be submerged. With each new realization, he only became more confused: someone had clearly put a lot of thought and effort into keeping him alive.</p>
<p>Slowly, tentatively, Tucker lifted himself to his feet. He had to grip the shower curtain for support, which in retrospect wasn't wise because if his legs had given out on him (which they nearly did, several times) he would have brought the whole thing crashing down on him, but in the end he managed to avoid that fate and make it out of the bathtub in one piece. From there, he leaned on the wall for support as he hobbled over to the door. He felt absolutely ridiculous, of course--it was like he was a goddamned baby deer--although he didn't feel the usual flush of heat in his skin that came with shame and humiliation. In fact, he didn't feel much of anything, except cold. He didn't even know what compelled him to get out of there. If he were smart, he'd stay in the bathtub and warm up a little more first. Maybe do some physical therapy to regain better control of his body. But he was driven to move.</p>
<p>There was a dark purple bathrobe hanging on the door, which he grabbed almost as an afterthought and slipped into for decency's sake. His body immediately thanked him for it. Once enveloped in the warmth of the bathrobe's lush fabric, his tense muscles relaxed and the goosebumps that had risen on his arms as soon as he'd stepped out of the water died down. He let out a sigh of momentary contentment before opening the door--unlocked, he noted--and stepping out into the hallway.</p>
<p>Almost immediately, a sound caught his ears from down the hall. <em>A voice</em>? Yes, a voice. Lyra's voice. <em>Ah</em>. Tucker felt a sudden heavy thickness rise in his chest. <em>That explains it. </em>Yes, of course it was her. Other than his cousin, there was nobody--no living person--who would go to the trouble of rescuing him. The fact that she'd gone to such great lengths for him was still vaguely surprising.</p>
<p>As Tucker crept down the hall toward the living room, he was able to make out a bit of what Lyra was saying.</p>
<p>"...all I can... ...alive, but... ...worst comes to worst... ...help me out? I can pay..."</p>
<p>He hung back upon reaching the living room entrance. There, he could see Lyra from behind, talking on her mobile phone. She was facing a window, through which he could see the sun setting on a picturesque backyard, but she was obviously too caught up in her phone call to look up and notice his reflection in it. Her own reflection was visible, but Tucker couldn't see it nearly well enough to read her expression. He could intuit it, though, from the inflection in her voice. Clearly she was getting worked up.</p>
<p>"...My cousin, yes. No, don't be disgusting. Haven't you ever cared for a relative before?" A lengthy pause, a deep breath, and then in a significantly less haughty tone than before: "Of course, sir. I'm sorry. Look, I really don't want him to die, okay? ...Er, well, you know what I mean. Yes, thank you, sir. Yes, sir, I understand. Alright. Okay, thank you, sir. Goodnight."</p>
<p>She turned her phone off and set it down on a luxuriously polished coffee table next to her. Only then did she look up and gasp.</p>
<p>If he were the cool type of person he had often aspired to be, Tucker would have had some kind of cool line to say when Lyra whirled around to stare at him (presumably wide-eyed and open-mouthed, but without his glasses, he had to squint to make out her face). Even a simple "miss me?" would have sufficed. Well, no, maybe not "miss me"... and definitely not "you can't get rid of me that easy", because given the circumstances, that really wouldn't... well, anyway, he just stood there and stared as she rushed over to him and threw her arms around him in a crushing embrace.</p>
<p>"Jesus fucking christ, Tucker!" He couldn't tell whether she was laughing or crying. Probably both, he realized, or neither. "What the hell was that?"</p>
<p>"What the hell was what?" he mumbled into the fabric of her jacket's shoulder--denim, which was quite the contrast to the type of getups she wore onstage.</p>
<p>"What do you think, genius?" Pulling back, Lyra glared at him and clamped her hands on either side of his face like a vice. Her skin was shockingly cold to the touch. He always remembered her as running fairly warm. But maybe that was just the rose-tinted lense with which he viewed his childhood. "Wandering out into the snow and collapsing like--like, uh, that fucking girl from that anime! Well, guess I shouldn't be surprised you'd take after her, given your stupid haircut," she added, poking at the unruly strands of hair that stood out above Tucker's messy brown bob cut like a pair of radio antenna. (Rather, she poked at the top of his head where those cowlicks would usually protrude, but right now all his hair was dripping wet and plastered to his head.)</p>
<p>Tucker had no idea what anime girl Lyra was talking about, and he guessed that she knew that. They never had watched much of the same television or films as each other, or read the same books, not since they were very young. Even their music taste diverged, although not entirely. Still, however many breakdowns in communication they had, differing tastes in media was hardly one of their bigger issues. No, it was other things that drove them apart.</p>
<p>Apart, and yet now apparently back together again. If only all things could be put back together so easily after being torn apart and scattered all over the floor. Then again, reassembling something didn't necessarily mean it would hold, or work the same way it used to. Blow a car to bits, put all the slabs of metal back in place, and it would just fall apart all over again when you took it out on the road. (Presumably. Tucker didn't know much about vehicles, except what he'd studied up while looking into a possible ghost car cover-up conspiracy.)</p>
<p>While all these thoughts and more were going through his head, Lyra sighed and pulled him back into an embrace, less crushingly tight this time around. She stroked his back and ran her hand through his damp hair. Something about it felt like an absentminded gesture, like she was just running on instinct. Even so, it was soothing. Tucker leaned forward, resting his head against her shoulder, and let his eyes flutter shut.</p>
<p>He must have drifted off again, because before he knew it, he was lying on Lyra's sofa swaddled under a large, fluffy blanket. His feet felt particularly warm, but when he tried to wriggle his toes it felt like there was some kind of weight holding them down. He discovered the explanation for this quickly enough, upon propping himself up so he could see over his knees: lying atop his feet, curled up and purring, was a small cat with light brown fur.</p>
<p>He looked over at the coffee table. Lyra had moved her mobile phone somewhere else; in its place were a bowl of soup and cup of tea. Tucker blinked slowly at the items, trying to work out whether they were for him. Circumstances pointed toward that being the case, but he didn't want to be presumptuous...</p>
<p>A tinge of the soup's savoury aroma came his way, prompting his stomach to grumble like a large discontented animal. <em>Well,</em> he thought, <em>if it's not for me then she should have guarded it better. </em>Moving carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping kitten on his feet, he picked up the soup and began to eat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Nothing but a lifestyle to which noone can relate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You think he'll be alright on his own?"</p><p>Lyra shrugged, jabbing her fork into her salad. "He'd better be."</p><p>"Okay, but..." Cindy chewed her lip, eyes wide with anxiety. "Shouldn't he be at, you know, a hospital or something? I mean, you're not a medical professional... what if you do something wrong?"</p><p>"Yeah, seriously, dude. Who finds someone passed out in the snow and takes them anywhere other than an emergency room?" Diablo leaned across the table, raising an accusatory eyebrow. "I mean, good thing he's pulling through okay, but that was one hell of a gamble."</p><p>"You're right," Lyra said, because there was nothing else she could say without sounding completely unreasonable. "It was a mistake. If anything like this ever happens again, it'll be straight to the hospital with him."</p><p>"Well, let's just hope something like this <em>doesn't</em> happen again," Neil cut in. "Anyway, let's wrap up this lunch break soon. We've got a lot of practicing to get done today."</p><p>Lyra blinked gratefully at Neil for coming to her rescue. As her oldest friend among the band members, he knew things about her that the others didn't. Sometimes those things weren't directly related to how long they'd known each other, though. Sometimes it was a matter of him being her designated driver on the way home from a party, being in the car with her, seeing for himself the way her body was damaged in a way that no ordinary doctor could ever repair. Sometimes it was a matter of him confronting her about her miraculous recovery from "near"-death, as the newspapers were calling it, and because they were friends she would have felt like a heel if she didn't tell him the truth.</p><p>(In that way, it <em>was </em>sort of related to how long they'd known each other. Back then, Neil was the only one of her bandmates who she would have trusted to watch her drink for her at a party, let alone drive her home from said party. Hence why he was the only one who knew her secret.)</p><p>If Lyra had called the paramedics when she found Tucker passed out on the sidewalk the other night, they would have noticed things about her. Initially, they'd probably only notice one thing: her lack of body heat. They'd assume, understandably, she was experiencing hypothermia as well, and bring her in, and start examining her. That's when they'd discover all sorts of other exciting things about her physiology. The stitches holding her together, for one thing. The lack of a heartbeat, for another. The tiny circuits fused into her brain to keep it operational. And whatever the doctors would do once they found out all those fun little things, it would definitely spell the end of Lyra's career, in the absolute <em>best </em>case scenario. Worst case... boy, where to begin? She'd seen movies and tv. There were a million different worst-case scenarios for what could happen if she was discovered. Yikes.</p><p>Neil knew this, and so he knew why Lyra couldn't have brought Tucker to the hospital. He'd promised not to tell the others about Lyra's secret, and to this day he made good on that promise; if there was any guilt in his eyes now, it was obscured by the flash of his glasses.</p><p>"Aw, c'mon, we just sat down," Diablo complained, pulling Lyra out of her dark self-reflection and back into the present. He picked up his unopened bag of chips and shook it in demonstration. "See?"</p><p>"Seriously, Neil, since when are you in such a rush to get practicing?" Cindy added, her nose crinkling in amusement as she peeled open her cup of yogurt. "Normally you're the last one still hanging around while the rest of us are ready to go."</p><p>"Oh, uh, well," Neil stammered, "Of course we don't have to get started right away... I just meant, well, no need to sit around gossiping."</p><p>"Well, Lyra's the one who brought it up," Diablo muttered, but he took the hint and didn't pursue the issue further.</p><p>Later, while they were each working separately to practice their individual parts of a new song, Lyra pulled Neil aside to talk, ostensibly about budgeting.</p><p>"So, what do you actually want to talk about?" Neil asked the moment they'd stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind them.</p><p>"Okay, so," she began, "You and Cindy are cousins, right?"</p><p>"You know, I'm actually not sure," he replied with a slight laugh. "My mom always referred to her dad as my uncle, but I'm not sure if they were actually related or just old friends. But either way, we grew up in the same neighborhood, saw each other all the time... she was always kind of like a little sister to me."</p><p>"Okay, good, that's what I thought. So, I guess my question is..." Lyra hesitated, brow furrowing, as she tried to work out how to phrase her question. "How do you guys still manage to get along?"</p><p>"What's that supposed to mean?" Neil asked, tilting his head. "Why wouldn't we get along?"</p><p>"Well, haven't there ever been times when, you know..." She waved her hands in a vague gesture. "When she gets on your nerves? Makes it difficult to maintain a relationship?"</p><p>Neil shrugged, his lopsided smile infuriatingly genuine and sweet. "Not really. Maybe her taste in guys, but that's none of my business, and even that doesn't really bother me much. I trust her to make good decisions."</p><p>Lyra sighed, tilting her head back in exasperation that was moreso directed at herself than her bandmate. Honestly, she should have known better than to ask Neil for advice. He was one of the friendliest and least judgemental people she knew. And Cindy, well, she was pretty easy to like once you got to know her--nowhere near as difficult to get along with as Tucker, in any case. The situations weren't remotely comparable.</p><p>"Well, you know what? I'm glad to hear it," she told him, putting on a smile. "I think a lot of people could stand to learn a lot from you, Neil."</p><p>"Aw, really? Haha, thanks."</p><p><em>Yeah... people like Tucker, specifically,</em> she thought.</p><hr/><p>When he thought about it, it made a lot of sense that Lyra's house would be so big. She was a pop star with a successful career, after all. It was just hard, considering her average middle-class background, to wrap his head around the fact that her house was practically a mansion whereas he was living in a tiny apartment.</p><p>After wandering around for a bit, Tucker found a note that Lyra had taped to the fridge.</p><p>
  <em>Practicing with the band. I'll be back at 5:30 PM. I want you to still be here when I get home. Don't do anything stupid.</em>
</p><p>"She should write greeting cards," Tucker muttered wryly to himself. At his feet, Lyra's kitten meowed indignantly, as if offended by his remark.</p><p>A glance at the clock revealed it to be 3:05. That left him a couple hours to hang around the house waiting for his cousin to get back. He had no idea what she expected him to do with himself during that time; he had half a mind to leave anyway just to spite her, but every door in the house was locked when he tried it. Clearly Lyra didn't trust him not to go wandering out into the snow again. Admittedly, he could hardly blame her for taking the precaution, but it was still annoying to be treated like a housepet.</p><p>He wound up spending the majority of the day lounging on the couch watching television. The history channel was airing an exciting program about the possibility of alien encounters, which he eagerly leaned in and turned the volume up for. Other than that, an exploration of his cousin's house led him to a few interesting discoveries.</p><p>1. Her fashion sense hadn't changed much. After seeing her in all those flashy ensembles, it was a refreshing surprise to look in her walk-in closet and find band shirts, skinny jeans, regular jeans with creases at the bottom where the cuffs had evidently been frequently rolled up, jean jackets, hoodies decorated with pins, etc. When he was sufficiently warm and dry and tired of being in the bathrobe, he selected a faded Smash Mouth t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants--the only non-denim pants he could find in the house.</p><p>2. As could be expected, she owned copious amounts of cosmetics. He discovered a linen closet near the bathroom that was crammed full of nothing but maximum-size containers of foundation. Did she have that many insecurities about her complexion? They had similar complexions, coming from the same family line: the same light brown skin, dustings of freckles across their faces, and a fairly high susceptibility to blemishes. Tucker didn't think of either himself or his cousin as bad-looking per se, but he didn't consider himself particularly good-looking either, and by extension he supposed it made sense that Lyra might have some insecurities about her appearance. Still, he had to wonder...</p><p>4. The bookshelf in her living room was home to a sizable portion of the <em>Goosebumps</em> catalogue, as well as several <em>Animorphs</em> books. Tucker raised an eyebrow at that. And here she was casting judgement on him for his lifestyle choices...</p><p>3. She had not only the kitten, but also two fish tanks in her bedroom. One was empty (perhaps the fish that had previously resided there was recently deceased) and the other had some sort of odd little creatures floating around in it. He was surprised to recognize them as sea monkeys, although he couldn't tell whether they were alive or dead. In any case, they didn't react when he poked the tank.</p><p>(Speaking of the kitten, it had a shiny purple collar that matched Lyra's hair, but no name tag. It didn't answer to any names he called it, so he guessed that the kitten was a recent addition to the household and his cousin had yet to pick out a name yet.)</p><p>5. Her kitchen wasn't particularly well-stocked. There was a bottle of chocolate sauce and a box of hamburger helper in the pantry, and two cartons of store-bought lemonade (both the regular kind and the pink kind) in the fridge along with several tupperware containers filled with various leftovers, including a pasta dish that looked rather untrustworthy. It looked like the soup she'd served him earlier had been made from a just-add-water mix. To be fair, it was far better stocked than Tucker's own kitchen, but at least he had the excuse of living in relative poverty.</p><p>6. There were several photos hung up here and there around the house.</p><p>In the hallway, over by the staircase, there was a framed photo of Lyra as a young girl with her parents. Their faces smiled back at Tucker as he studied the old photo, trying to determine when it would have been taken. Lyra looked like she couldn't have been any older than five or six. That meant Tucker would have still been a baby when the photo was taken. <em>Strange, the passage of time</em>. There were a couple more family photos, in the living room by the couch and in the dining room mounted above the table. Looking at them, he wondered if Lyra still kept in touch with her folks at all. Come to think of it, he also wondered if she kept in touch with <em>his </em>folks at all; they were her aunt and uncle, after all. One thing was for sure: his folks sure didn't keep in touch with him.</p><p>Another photo, hung on the wall above a cat bed, showed Lyra posing dramatically with her kitten. Many people would have snickered upon seeing it, but the smile that spread across Tucker's face was full of warmth. He'd always known his cousin had a softer and sillier side--well, of course she did; didn't everyone?--but it was nice to have confirmation that she still hadn't completely lost her often-hidden lighthearted side.</p><p>And then, of course, she had some photos of herself with the band. There was one on her dresser, half-hidden behind bottles of perfume and yet another container of foundation, that Tucker picked up and examined.</p><p>When he turned it over, he could barely read his cousin's writing scrawled on the back. It looked like it was dated to around five... no, it would have been closer to six years ago now. Thinking back on it, he supposed he would have been in his final year of college at that time. But of course, that wasn't relevant. Nothing about the contents of this photo had anything to do with him, and he was sure Lyra wouldn't have wanted it any other way.</p><p><em>"Our first show-- a big success!!!!"</em> Lyra's lopsided cursive proclaimed, followed by some little music note and flower doodles. Then, in what he could only assume was each member's handwriting, they'd each written their names: Lyra Amelia Deward; Neil [last name completely illegible; he couldn't make it out]; Cindy Lafayette; Diablo Sundberg. In the photo, their grins were twice as bright as the neon stagelights behind them. A bunch of chipper twenty-five-year-olds, standing at the start of a lifetime journey of fun and excitement.</p><p>Looking at the photo, Tucker didn't feel the slightest tug of envy. He had never wanted to join a band or play music. He didn't want a rowdy group of friends to hang around with, at least not in the way Lyra's friend group appeared to operate from what little he'd seen of it. All he wanted to do was discover and spread the truth... and be recognized for it. Have his discoveries be acknowledged. Be <em>heard.</em> God, he wanted to be heard. But not in the musical sense, and so he felt no envy toward the success his cousin had found, honestly.</p><p>Tucker folded the photo up--it was already old and faded; a few new creases were the least of its troubles--and tucked it in his back pocket. If Lyra were to notice it later when she came home and asked why he took it, he genuinely wouldn't know how to answer her.</p><hr/><p>"Okay, one more time, guys, and then we're done for the evening," Lyra announced, clapping her hands together. "Take it from the top. You ready?"</p><p>After each of her bandmates put their water bottles aside and nodded in confirmation, she smiled and tapped her foot against the ground to count them in. Their playing was still a bit rusty, but they were starting to get the hang of this new song. Lyra was still thinking she might have to rework a part here and there--give Cindy a longer piano solo, tone down Neil's part so it wouldn't drown out the vocals, maybe rework the chord progression so Diablo would stop getting confused and playing in the wrong key at the wrong moment--but overall it was coming along pretty well.</p><p>The lyrics were still a bit of an issue, though.</p><p>Normally she and Neil took care of songwriting, with Diablo occasionally contributing and offering suggestions, but this time Cindy had offered to write a song. A surprise, to be sure, but a very welcome one. Apparently it was her first stab at music writing since her first failed attempt at starting a musical career back in college. Of course Lyra and the others had wanted to encourage her. And, sure enough, the piece she came up with was lovely... as an instrumental track. The lyrics, on the other hand...</p><p>
  <em>"No matter what we try to do/ We are rockers, this is true/ It'll always be true, I know our popularity will never die/ I wonder why/ It's like gulping down a cold drink, we'll freeze your brain/ But at the same time, it sets the world of rock aflame/ This rock-and-roll fire causes endless pain/ We make music, it's not lame/ Because right now we sing songs/ And I want you to sing along/ And we're going strong/ Forevermore, we're a band that's really cool/ Sometimes we sing a capella, if you know what I mean/ We'll make you catch on fire like a death beam!"</em>
</p><p>"Well, I just find it a little odd, is all," Lyra explained as she was driving Cindy home after rehearsal (normally Cindy took the bus, but apparently she'd lost her bus pass--now, if it were Lyra, she'd have taken that as a sign to just give in and buy a car already, but apparently her bandmate didn't see it that way). "The whole melody is great. And with the lyrics, there are some lines I really like. But then, all the generic stuff about how we're a cool rock band... I just feel like we're ten years too old to be singing songs like that, and we only started six years ago. And then there's that whole fire motif... it creates a lot of tonal dissonance from the musical sound, which can work in some cases, but here I don't know if it really fits."</p><p>Cindy sighed, slumping in her seat. It sounded more like a sigh of resignation than one of disappointment--like Lyra's evaluation was exactly what she'd been expecting. Glancing at her in the rearview, Lyra saw that her bandmate's head was lowered, such that her bangs dangled over her face and obscured her expression.</p><p>"Yeah, I figured as much..."</p><p>"But, hey, listen," Lyra went on, putting on an encouraging smile, "It's alright. You did good. We can take your instrumental, write new lyrics for it, and--"</p><p>"No," Cindy interjected, quickly and with a surprising amount of force. "Um, that's okay. I mean, if the only thing I can write songs about is being a rockstar, then I guess I'm just not cut out for writing music."</p><p>Lyra frowned, brow furrowing. There was something odd about the way Cindy was speaking. It was like she was specifically trying to convince Lyra to scrap her song altogether. <em>Why'd she write it in the first place, then? </em>Not to mention the strange discrepancy between the good and bad parts of the song...</p><p>She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Geez, she was beginning to think like Tucker. <em>There isn't some goddamned conspiracy cover-up happening here,</em> she reminded herself, <em>because this is the real world, and I know Cindy, and she's not the type to hide things for no reason.</em></p><p>Instead, she reached over--without taking her eyes off the road or other hand off the steering wheel, obviously--and laid a hand on Cindy's arm. "Hey, that's not true. What about the music you wrote back in college?"</p><p>"Oh, no, that..." Cindy let out a small nervous laugh of self-deprecation. It was the sound she always made when the subject of her old music came up. "Believe me, that music was not good. I only ever sold three copies of my LP--one to my parents, one to Neil, and one to a mystery buyer who I think might have also been either Neil or my parents using an alternate account."</p><p>"Well, sure, but that doesn't necessarily mean it wasn't any good," Lyra objected. "Plenty of good things are unpopular, and vice versa."</p><p>Cindy's only reply was an inaudible mutter as she twisted her hands together in her lap. Lyra took it as a sign to drop the subject. She sighed and set both hands back on the wheel. They could talk about this again the next day, she supposed; there was no need to force the issue right this minute.</p><p>Lyra mentally replayed the conversation. Something that Cindy had said stuck out in her brain. Out of three people in the whole world who had chosen to support Cindy's burgeoning career back then, one of them had been Neil. Was that why they were still able to get along so well after growing up--because they supported each other when it mattered? Maybe even specifically because he went to the effort of <em>listening</em> to her?</p><p>Lyra hummed in contemplation, absentmindedly drumming her fingers against the steering wheel to the predictable 4/4 beat of the pop song playing over the radio. Not everything in life was as simple as the construction of a pop song--most things weren't, in fact. With her and Tucker, listening to him was difficult, because... well, because a lot of what he said was stupid and ridiculous. But... if she was really going to give him another chance...</p><p>...Well, then, maybe it was time to start showing a bit more interest in his life. She just hoped he wouldn't end up making her regret it.</p><hr/><p>Lyra came home at 5:57 PM. Tucker was in the middle of entertaining the kitten by dangling a string toy in front of its face when he heard her car pulling up in the driveway. His first instinct was to leap off the couch and run to the door to meet her like an overexcited dog. Luckily for whatever semblance of dignity he had left, he managed to override that instinct with common sense; she came into the living room to find him sitting cross-legged on the couch like a respectible adult, the cat toy put aside.</p><p>"Hey, you're still here," she greeted him--if you could call it a greeting. It sounded like one, the way she said it. "Good."</p><p>"Well, I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I?" He pointedly raised his eyebrows, angling his head toward the locked side door.</p><p>"Well, no, you didn't," Lyra shot back in a sneering imitation of Tucker's petulant tone, "Because based on recent events, quite frankly, I don't trust you to keep yourself alive!"</p><p>"Point taken," he muttered. "So, then, may I go home now? Or will you keep me locked up here forever?"</p><p>"That depends." She placed her hands on her hips and stared him down. It always amazed him how quickly his cousin's mood, or at least the way she expressed it, could change; there was no trace of mocking now, just a serious frown etched across her face. "How are you going to get home? Do you want me to drive you? If you take the bus, then you need to call me as soon as you get home. And before you even bring it up, no, I'm not letting you walk all the way across town to your apartment."</p><p>"And just why not?" Tucker shot back. Stepping off the couch, he drew himself up to his full height to stare his cousin down. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm just as much of a fully grown adult as you are. And how do you get off acting so concerned for me all of a sudden? You know nothing about what my life is like now!"</p><p>To his surprise, rather than flinching away from him or retaliating with harsher words, Lyra just shook her head. There was a tremor to her jaw that suggested she was actively fighting back a scowl, but fight it back she did, landing instead on a frustratingly neutral expression.</p><p>"You're right," she said. "I don't know much about how you've been doing these past few years. And I especially don't know..." She paused, a guilty look flitting through her dark eyes. "I don't know what exactly you've gone through, to put you in this position. I didn't really <em>want</em> to know, so I didn't ask. I guess that was stupid of me."</p><p>Her words made Tucker's heart twist up with guilt and shame. She didn't elaborate on what she meant by <em>"this position", </em>but she didn't have to. She meant, of course, the position which had led him to wander aimlessly through freezing rain without a coat and, upon falling down, not make any real effort to stand up or call for help. Because yes, although he was loathe to admit it, he probably could have gotten up and kept moving if he'd tried. But thinking back to that moment, an icy feeling crept into his bones as he realized that he hadn't <em>wanted</em> to get up and keep going. The cold made for a good excuse to lay down and die. And, well, come to think of it... maybe he'd secretly been hoping for such an excuse.</p><p>Well, if Lyra had recognized his subconscious motivations before Tucker had recognized them himself, no wonder she didn't trust him to walk home on his own.</p><p>"Oh, dear god," he whispered, head spinning with the realization that he was faring even worse than he'd thought. Raising his head, he met Lyra's apologetic gaze with one of his own. "I... I've really made you worry, haven't I?"</p><p>Lyra blinked, visibly surprised by his interjection. He realized with a twinge of embarrassment that she wasn't privy to his train of thought, and him talking about suicidal tendencies or lack thereof must have seemed to come out of nowhere when she'd just been talking about something else altogether. However, a look of understanding quickly settled over her. Her lips stretched into a pained smile as she nodded.</p><p>"Yeah, Tuck. You really fucking have."</p><p>There was a whole other way the interaction could have played out from there. He could, and probably should, have apologized and sworn never to try to throw his life away again. He could have stepped forward and embraced her, as it looked like she was considering doing herself judging by the way she kept looking at him with her arms slightly raised and making little half-movements toward him before repeatedly backing out. He could have told her he didn't have to leave just yet... that he could stay another night at her place. That he could stay in her life, if she wanted, and she in his.</p><p>But it seemed that, after everything, he was still a coward at heart. He tugged at his collar, for lack of jacket lapels to tug on or a bowtie to adjust, and cleared his throat, nodding toward the door.</p><p>"Well, then, I agree to your terms. Now are you going to drive me home?"</p><p>The look of disappointment that clouded Lyra's face was hard to miss, and it made his gut clench with guilt, but the moment passed and she quickly stretched her face into an amicable smile.</p><p>"Of course."</p><hr/><p>They didn't talk much on the drive over to Tucker's apartment complex. When they arrived, he hopped out of the car and scurried into the building before she could so much as send him off with a proper goodbye. Lyra watched from the driver's seat as the complex's automatic doors slid shut behind him, separating them once again. She could have run out after him if she really wanted, but what was the point? It was already dark out, and driving at night was something she liked to avoid whenever possible. Better to just get home and call him back in the morning, if she still felt as charitable towards him the next day.</p><p>As it happened, she did not wake up feeling particularly charitable. The first thing she did upon rising from slumber that morning was grab her pillow and throw it at the far wall.</p><p>"That damn asshole," she muttered. Her voice rang out perfectly clear, unclogged by lingering sleep as most people's would be. Similarly, nothing ever built up in her eyes overnight. Didn't mean she woke up feeling any more refreshed or less bleary than any other person, though. "Stupid dweeb. Where does he get off acting like that?"</p><p>As if to voice agreement, her kitten let out a loud mewl of complaint from her position at the foot of Lyra's bed. She then hopped down and trotted back and forth in front of the door, stubby beige tail sticking up.</p><p>Lyra chuckled, frustration with her cousin temporarily forgotten. "Alright, alright," she sighed. "Hold your horses, girl."</p><p>The kitten followed obediently at Lyra's heels as she walked to the kitchen, and walked in frantic little circles around her, meowing all the while, as Lyra was getting the cat food out of the cupboard. The persistent hungry circling, combined with the tiny fangs jutting from the kitten's mouth and the fin-like triangular ears, made Lyra think of a shark.</p><p>"Hey, here's an idea," she remarked as she bent down to scoop the cat food into the bowl. "I could call you Jaws. How's that sound?"</p><p>The kitten didn't bother to answer, wasting no time in tucking into her breakfast. Regardless of the lack of reception to her suggestion, Lyra liked the idea, so she decided then and there to stick with it. After all, going nine days without a name was more than enough.</p><p>Honestly, Lyra still couldn't believe her parents had given her a live kitten as a holiday gift. If she couldn't even manage to keep a fish, some sea monkeys, or technically even <em>herself</em> alive, how was she supposed to do the same for something as complex as a cat? Then again, the kitten was still healthy, so she must have been doing okay so far. It even looked like she'd done a decent enough job keeping Tucker alive the day before, so... well, maybe she was getting better at this whole caretaker thing?</p><p>"Oh, yeah," she spoke aloud to herself once the thought of her cousin's welfare crossed her mind. "His old clothes are still here in the dryer, aren't they? Hmm." She tapped her finger against her chin, putting on an exaggerated show of thought although her only audience was the kitten. "What do you say, Jaws? Should I go return them to him?"</p><p>Jaws turned her head to blink up at Lyra with eyes that were still bright with kitten-blue. According to something she'd read online, those eyes would probably change colour as the little kitten got older. That wasn't so surprising, really. The passage of time could change people in all sorts of ways; Lyra was more familiar with that concept than anyone.</p><p>"You're right, girl. Not like I'd wear his nerd clothes anyway," she decided. "I'll swing by his place later and drop them off."</p><p>As it happened, she did not swing by Tucker's apartment that day. It slipped her mind, purely by accident, as she got caught up in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. She had practice to do with the band, planning for their next performance--it was still over three months away, but time could really fly, and it was better to prepare as much as possible as soon as possible--and then she had to drive Cindy home again because apparently she still hadn't found her bus pass, and then also drive Diablo home because his motorbike was in the shop, and she offered to drive both of them at the same time but they got really weird and nervous when she made the suggestion, and... yeah. Lots of things to do.</p><p>She didn't make it to Tucker's place the next day, either, or the next day after that. It was more band rehearsal, more grueling hours of practice capped off with executive decisions to mull over, and Neil gave Cindy a new bus pass and scolded her gently for losing her old one, and Cindy giggled and thanked him and promised it wouldn't happen again, and Diablo eyed this exchange with what looked almost like a scowl. Then the next day Diablo's bike was finally out of the shop with a shiny new coat of paint, and Lyra and Neil both high-fived him when he walked in, but Cindy just smiled shyly, and for the whole rest of the day they kept glancing over at each other and looking like they wanted to say something but then looking away. Lyra had no idea what was up with her bandmates, but whatever problems they had with one another, she could only hope they'd work it out before the concert.</p><p>The day after that she didn't have work, but she did have a myriad of chores to do: house-cleaning, stocking up on groceries and pet supplies, a trip to her agent's place to re-tighten her stitches and make sure her voicebox was still properly tuned. It was only late in the afternoon, while she was putting away freshly folded laundry, that she realized Tucker's clothes remained unreturned to him.</p><p>"Oh, damn it," she muttered, smacking herself on the forehead. "Shit. Hope he's not mad at me." Then, after a beat: "Wait, who cares if he's mad? He's the one who's been a little bitch."</p><p>Nevertheless, she dialed his number, figuring it was better to call in advance than to show up unannounced. True to her cousin's nature, the phone didn't even get one full ring in before he snatched it off the hook.</p><p>"Hello?"</p><p>"Hey, Tuck, it's me. Listen, you left your clothes at my place the other day--"</p><p>"Oh, finally! I've been trying to reach you all week, but none of my calls seem to have been getting through."</p><p>Lyra arched an eyebrow. "Pardon?"</p><p>"And before you say anything, yes, I <em>know </em>you have a different phone number now. But I looked for you in the phonebook, and I simply couldn't find you anywhere!"</p><p>"Right, yeah. That's because I don't have a landline. Anyway, I'm going to be coming over in a bit to drop off your clothes, so..." She trailed off, taking a moment to consider his words. "You've been trying to call me?"</p><p>"Of course--every day--and perhaps I should be grateful that it took me so long to reach you, because it's given me more time to rehearse what to say." He took a deep breath, the kind he always took when about to launch into a spiel. Lyra instinctively rolled her eyes, and then was glad he couldn't see her over the phone. "I'm sorry for the way I've acted. I know it's a lot of weight that I've dropped on your shoulders, and I know you must have had enough on your plate already without me and my problems, but..."</p><p>"Aw, geez, don't worry about it," Lyra said, suddenly feeling vaguely guilty even though she didn't see what she had to be guilty about. "I know you were going through a tough time."</p><p>"Yes, but still... by god, I have been something of an idiot lately, haven't I?"</p><p>"Well, yeah, you kinda have."</p><p>To her surprise, he actually laughed at that. The sound had a rusty quality to it, and quickly lapsed into a coughing fit, but it still brought a smile to her face. This... this was good, she thought. This was a step in the right direction. Something stirred in her gut that compelled her to say more--say something she should have said several days ago.</p><p>"Hey, so. About the other week," she began. "When I found you at the old arcade."</p><p>"...Yes?"</p><p>The audible tension in Tucker's voice made her tense up as well. She gulped, trying to figure out how to word the question delicately.</p><p>"What..." She hesitated, frowning. No, it wasn't a <em>what,</em> was it? From the way Tucker had wept, it couldn't have been just a <em>what.</em> "Who was that? I mean, why were you crying so hard?"</p><p>"...Ah." It was a strangled sound, and the only one he made before lapsing into a long stretch of silence. Lyra instinctively held her breath (which was just as well, since she didn't need to breathe anyway) as she waited for him to respond. Seconds ticked by, and gradually she became aware of the sound of them, counted meticulously by the analog clock mounted on the wall a few feet away. She had no idea why she kept that old thing around, but at least it still worked, unlike the digital clock in her bedroom that kept glitching out and reading 12:34.</p><p>"...It's okay," she said, when he went what must have been over a minute without saying anything. "Listen, I'm sure you've heard about the kind of crazy shit that goes down in the world of rock-and-roll. Whatever you tell me, I doubt it'll be the worst thing I've heard."</p><p>Once again, to her pleasant surprise, her comment was able to coax a nervous laugh from her cousin.</p><p>"Well, then. I suppose it all started last year," he began. "Or, to be more precise, it started a year and a few months ago, when I first heard stories of a possessed, haunted, or otherwise malevolent machine at the local arcade..."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. This must be what love would have felt like</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. October 12th, 20XX:</em>
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  <em>Friendly dog in alley this morning. Stopped to say hi. Then its owner came out and yelled at me to get off their property. This city is afraid of me.</em>
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  <em>That radio show host still isn't calling me back. I guess what I said the last time they let me on their show must've been the last straw... I wonder what it was that broke the proverbial camel's back. Ah, well, guess I'll never know.</em>
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  <em>On to the next AM radio show, then. There's this new program I've been listening to a lot lately--a local one. It collects stories from listeners about paranormal experiences they've had! I'm sure not all of them are true--people will make anything up for the "clout", as people are apparently calling it nowadays--but statistically speaking, some of those stories have got to be true! And since they're all coming from a local source, I actually have the opportunity to confirm or deny their truth for myself. And speaking of the truth, well... if I can track down some of these paranormal happenings and secure tangible proof of their existence, it would change everything! Why, I'd have finally made it. Surely not even this world of naysayers and disbelievers will deny the truth once it's before their very eyes!</em>
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  <em>And when everyone finally realizes I was right all along, that radio host will call me back and cry "Tucker! Come be on my show again!" And I'll look down into the receiver and whisper "No."</em>
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<p>Tucker chuckled softly to himself as he popped the cap back on his pen and tucked it and his journal away in his purse. Were his pop culture references a little forced and outdated? Perhaps. But everything he wrote in his journal was a reflection of his true beliefs, for the most part. He really was hopeful about the prospect of this new local radio show, especially after how disastrously all his previous attempts to get the truth out had proved to be.</p>
<p>As he strolled down the sidewalk, he found that the chill autumn breeze cut a little too easily through the flimsy linen of his shirt. He really would have to buy warmer clothing soon. To compensate, he picked his pace up to a brisk jog. The cold air filled his lungs with a stinging sensation, but somehow that only made him want to run faster. Before you knew it, he was practically skipping along and humming a tune to himself.</p>
<p>And lo and behold, not a moment too soon, he arrived at the old arcade. Coming to a stop outside its achingly familiar doors, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath before putting his hands on his hips and tilting his head back to gaze up at the faded sign. Sure enough, it was the exact same sign that had hung there back when he was a kid. <em>Gosh,</em> he realized with a potent twinge of nostalgia, <em>I haven't been here in ages.</em> He wondered whether it was still under the same management, too. Must've been, to still have the same sign out front... or maybe it had been passed down from the original owner to a close friend or family member.</p>
<p>Well, no sense waiting around. After sufficiently catching his breath and drinking in the inherent nostalgia of the location, Tucker did his best to smooth his hair out, adjusted his glasses and bowtie, straightened his posture, and pushed open the ever-inviting arcade doors.</p>
<p>Even the jingle of the bell above the door when he walked in was the same as when he was a kid. Tucker let out a breathy laugh of disbelief, a grin spreading across his face. The interior looked pretty similar, too. It was the same layout, anyway--no renovations that he could tell--and he even saw a lot of the exact same games. The one major difference was the floor. He was looking up rather than down when he stepped in, but the texture that his shoes came down upon immediately surprised and disappointed him. He looked down to have his fears confirmed: the old colourful carpet, primarily black with swirling neon geometric patterns like something off the cover of a textbook, had been stripped away and replaced with a plain old tiled floor.</p>
<p>He didn't mean to let out an audible sigh of disappointment, but he must have, because there was a deep-voiced chuckle from behind the counter. Tucker's head immediately snapped up to see the source of the voice.</p>
<p>"It was a shame the old carpet had to go," said the old man from his position in front of the case of cheap plastic prizes. "But it was just getting too damn hard to keep it clean, especially now that maintenance men keep away from the place."</p>
<p>For a moment Tucker froze in shock. No way... surely not? But yes, indeed, leaning back in his chair behind the counter with his feet up on the desk was the very same man who had run the arcade a decade--almost two decades ago!</p>
<p>"Oh my god, it's really you!" With a thrill of excitement that was, in retrospect, embarrassingly juvenile, Tucker rushed up to the counter and grabbed the old man's weathered hands. "Mr. Arkwright... I can't believe it. How long has it been--ten, eleven years?!"</p>
<p>"Woah there!" Mr. Arkwright's bushy eyebrows rocketed up. They, along with the rest of his hair, had gone gray since the last time Tucker had seen him, but his hairline hadn't receded in the slightest, though he had swapped out his mullet for a shorter cut. If the sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose contained prescription lenses, it was impossible to tell. "And just who are y... wait." His eyes went wide, and suddenly Tucker's handshake was returned. "Don't tell me! The little Tellison boy, all grown up!"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," Tucker replied, his grin persisting so long that it made his face ache. He wasn't used to smiling so much. "That's me, sir."</p>
<p>"What brings you back here after all these years, kiddo?"</p>
<p>"Well, sir, um." Retracting his hands and folding them behind his back, Tucker drew himself to his full height and cleared his throat. "I've come here to conduct an investigation."</p>
<p>Mr. Arkwright raised an eyebrow. Tucker couldn't put a finger on how or why, but his cheer suddenly seemed to diminish. "An investigation."</p>
<p>"That's right--relating to a story that was broadcast over a local radio program yesterday. According to a variety of witness reports, there's been strange and possibly paranormal activity happening in this arcade for many years. I'm here to dig to the heart of the matter and unearth the truth."</p>
<p>To his dismay, when he looked expectantly at Mr. Arkwright, he was met with a gradually deepening scowl. Tucker frowned, confused--if not as surprised as he would have liked to be--by the intensity of the reaction.</p>
<p>"Sir..."</p>
<p>"I shoulda known," the old man grumbled, the creases in his forehead deepening even further as he knitted his brow. "I thought I left all that behind at the turn of the millennium. But no, people are still talking about that stupid rumour. For the first time in years, Tellison, I'm finally seeing a resurgence in business here. And now you and your fellow conspiracy nuts want to ruin my reputation all over again with your mumbo-jumbo. Well, I say get outta here with that shit!"</p>
<p>Tucker flinched. He didn't know what else he'd expected, really. Mr. Arkwright's words were milder, really, than some of the reactions his lifestyle had earned him over the years. But it stung more coming from a familiar face. Biting back a whimper, he took a step back with an apologetic shake of his head.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry, I didn't... I don't really believe the rumours, sir, I just wanted to investigate!"</p>
<p>"Doesn't matter," Mr. Arkwright growled. "One of your type starts sniffing around here, pretty soon there'll be a whole bunch of you. Just make it easier on all of us and keep that conspiracy shit out of my arcade."</p>
<hr/>
<p>In retrospect, it would have been wise to heed the old man's warning. Then again, had Tucker made the wise decision that night, he never would have entered the happiest phase of his life.</p>
<p>Yes, the key word there was <em>night;</em> he waited until after dark, when the arcade was closed, to conduct his investigation. The old arcade was notorious for being easily and often broken into. There was even a somewhat cruel joke that got tossed around sometimes, saying that only half the people who set foot there were customers, and the other half were vandals. Tucker supposed he would fall into the latter category that night, and although he'd be lying if he said there wasn't a shadow of guilt hanging over his head, he told himself it would be worth it to discover and expose the truth. He needed only insert a flexible piece of wire into the keyhole, and he was able to get inside as easily as if he were entering his own home. (In a way, unbeknownst to him at the time, perhaps he was.)</p>
<p>Needless to say, it was dark and empty, the only source of light being a glow-in-the-dark clock mounted on the wall and the only sound being the low staticky hum of machinery. Tucker fumbled around on the wall for a light switch before remembering he had a flashlight with him. He fumbled with it a bit as he was switching it on; his hands couldn't seem to stop shaking, and his heart was hammering away like that of a neurotic prey animal. Still, he did his best to push those nerves aside. Cautiously, he crept between the rows of dormant arcade machines--sleeping, he thought, and then idly smiled to himself at the thought of a video game closing its eyes and drifting off. Nothing visibly out of the ordinary appeared in the path of his flashlight's beam.</p>
<p>Then, as he reached the back of the building, he saw it: a red glow, emanating from beneath a door. His heartbeat picking up in excitement, Tucker approached with bated breath. As he drew nearer, he picked up on a faint but steady mechanical hum coming from behind it. There were signs on the door--"keep out"; "employees only"--and of course it was locked, but that was a problem easily solved with his makeshift lock pick. Cautiously, Tucker pushed the door open to reveal the source of the mysterious glow.</p>
<p>When he saw it, his heart practically jumped into his throat. There it sat, coated in dust and cobwebs, and yet unmistakable in its design. Before now, he had only ever seen pictures of it in obscure web articles--photos which easily could have been doctored, reports that could have been falsified. But here it was: the famed Polybius.</p>
<p>Black text flashed on the red screen--just the word "play?" in all caps. Tucker could have sworn the flashing grew more rapid as he approached, similar to the way his breaths shortened, and the mechanical hum the machine emitted grew louder. It began to sound almost like a siren song, luring him in. There was something enchanting about it. The arcade machine, so sleek in its design, had been painted black with blue highlights in the pictures he'd seen, but this one was red with orange highlights. A careful scan with his flashlight illuminated some kind of odd stain on its cabinet doors, and there was a funny smell in the air--probably just must and mildew, except there was something different about it. Nevertheless, it was jaw-droppingly gorgeous, purely on the basis of it being the Polybius. This machine could change Tucker's life... no, it could change the whole world forever.</p>
<p>The machine almost seemed to lean in toward him as he came to stand before it. Tentatively, pulse fluttering with nerves, he reached out and swiped his finger across the dusty screen. It gave him a little static shock, and he flinched, but it wasn't enough to make him back off. Using his sleeve, he dusted off the surface of the eagerly blinking screen. It was even more enticing when unobscured.</p>
<p>"My, my, my," he murmured. "Tell me, what is a machine like you doing in a place like this?"</p>
<p>With a sudden <em>bzzt, </em>the text on the screen glitched and disappeared. It was replaced with a black screen, upon which two glowing red ovals appeared. <em>Eyes? </em>Tucker jumped back, startled by the sudden change when he hadn't even pressed any buttons yet. Either this thing had some kind of automatic sensor, or...</p>
<p>He shuddered, out of equal parts fear and excitement. Sure enough, the eyes moved from side to side, looking him over. Then a mouth appeared on the screen as well, forming a cute little smiley face the likes of which you might see on a cartoon cat. That confirmed it, then: this wasn't just a <em>thing</em> at all. And if the face wasn't proof enough, the garbled voice that crackled from it a moment later sealed the deal.</p>
<p>《Hello.》 The pixelated smile on the screen widened, transforming into a ghoulish grin. Tucker realized with a shudder that it wasn't his imagination; the thing was definitely leaning in towards him. His shudder deepened as the voice continued: 《Goodbye.》</p>
<p>He let out a yelp at the sensation of something curling around his ankle. He jumped back, only for the grip on his ankle to tighten when he tried to move. Before he even knew what was happening, his legs were being pulled out from under him and he was being dragged toward--</p>
<p>It all happened too fast for him to see <em>what</em> he was being dragged toward, exactly, but he thought he saw the gleam of something sharp. Acting on pure survival instinct, he aimed his flashlight beam toward the machine's cabinet doors as they swung open. Apparently his gut instinct was correct. The machine emitted a mechanical hiss, recoiling, and its grip on him loosened just enough. He wound up having to kick his shoes off to get free, but get free he did, and then he scrambled out of the backroom, shutting the door behind him, and... well, if he were smart, he would have never looked back.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. October 20th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>So, I went back to the arcade the other night. And I survived, as evidenced by the fact that I'm writing this. I think tonight I'll go back again.</em>
</p>
<p>This time, when Tucker stepped into the arcade's backroom with his flashlight, he was prepared. That's not to say he wasn't nervous, mind you; when he pressed a hand against his chest, he could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage like a jackhammer. But he had to see that extraordinary machine again. And this time he had brought a camera, so however this visit panned out, he wouldn't walk away empty-handed.</p>
<p>《You...》</p>
<p>There it was: that spine-tingling mechanical gurgle. Tucker braced himself, attempting to steel his nerves as much as he could when said nerves felt more like they were made of straw.</p>
<p>《You're not... maintenance man. You... don't... work here.》</p>
<p>It was the auditory equivalent of one of those old ransom notes cut out of magazines. The words were jumbled, reassembled bits and pieces of various prerecorded voice clips. Because of that, picking up on tone and inflection was impossible; it took Tucker a moment to even process the words. When he did, he blinked, taken aback.</p>
<p>"N-no, I... well, I'm a, I'm a visitor," he stammered. Curiosity overriding caution, he took a step toward the strange machine, hands itching to reach out and brush off more dust. "Tell me, who are you? How did you get here?"</p>
<p>The pixelated eyes blinked slowly, somewhat like a cat. It looked... hopeful, almost. Imploring, even?</p>
<p>《...Are you... going to... play me?》</p>
<p>"Play... you?" he echoed. "I--I suppose I could, if that's what you want... but, er, you're alive, aren't you? Isn't it offensive to be treated like a game?"</p>
<p>The machine's eyelids (well, "eyelids" in quotes) drooped--yes, it was definitely emoting intentionally, no mistake. 《Wouldn't have put myself... in this box. If I didn't want... to be played.》</p>
<p>Tucker considered the machine's words for a moment. "You mean you weren't an arcade machine originally?"</p>
<p>It responded with a noncommittal buzzing sound, which he took as a <em>yes.</em> Now, that certainly was new information! He had heard all sorts of rumours about this allegedly living, evil arcade machine, ranging from it being an advanced form of AI to it being possessed by a spirit to it being some form of demon or alien that simply happened to take the form of an arcade machine, but he had never once heard it suggested that it could have formerly been a human.</p>
<p>"Extraordinary," Tucker breathed, trying not to let the tremor in his voice give away too much excitement. "And... if you don't mind my asking... how does that work, exactly? How did you... put yourself in the box, as you say?"</p>
<p>Another buzz, much like one you'd hear on a game show upon getting an answer wrong. The eyes on the screen narrowed, and then disappeared, replaced by the flashing "play" prompt.</p>
<p>"Alright, alright," Tucker murmured with an incredulous chuckle. "If you want to be played, I can do that."</p>
<p>He stepped up and hesitantly laid his hands atop the console. The buttons thrummed below his fingers, causing a tingling sensation in his skin that was altogether not unpleasant. He had no coins to insert, but it didn't seem to matter. He pushed the start button, and the game began.</p>
<p>Tucker's memories of the game itself were a blur. All he remembered was a whirl of flashing lights and shapes and colours, sound effects and charming 8-bit music, the tune of which escaped him, but he remembered thinking it was beautiful. Unfortunately, despite his otherwise geeky tendencies, he never had been much of a gamer. It wasn't long before he was out of lives, and the screen displayed a "game over" message.</p>
<p>"Oh, dear," Tucker sighed, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. His head wasn't the only part of him that was shaking, and his heart hadn't pounded so much since high school gym class, but somehow the emotion that took centre stage for him right then was sheepishness. He could feel a flush burning in his cheeks, hot enough to fog up his glasses. "Er, I'm sorry if that wasn't enough. I've always loved arcade games, but I've never been very adept at them."</p>
<p>《...No... that...》 The machine's--or maybe <em>machine</em> wasn't the right term, given its nature--voice came out even more garbled than usual, with little beeps and buzzes mixed in. 《That was. Good. I liked it... very much.》</p>
<p>The "game over" screen disappeared as it spoke, and its face reformed, smiling at Tucker. It wasn't an intimidating leer this time; it was something else. Something that Tucker couldn't put his finger on. In his chest, his heart finally slowed down for a moment by way of skipping a beat.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. November 11th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There was some kind of event at the arcade today, apparently. I wasn't interested in attending, but it's lasting well into the evening, meaning that Mr. Arkwright is keeping the arcade open much longer than usual. I don't think I'll be able to visit the Polybius tonight.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I wonder if it ever gets lonely in that backroom, or jealous of the other games. I'm sure I would, were I in that position. Poor thing. The game itself functions perfectly well; I don't see why Mr. Arkwright insists on keeping it shut away. Perhaps the next time I see him, I'll try to talk to him about it.</em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. December 8th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It's funny how life carries on so unaware of my discovery. On the news today, they ran a story about some kids losing their dog. That's so trivial, compared to the confirmed existence of the legendary Polybius machine. And yet the outside world has no idea.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>On that note, I don't know how I keep forgetting to take pictures/videos of the Polybius while I'm visiting with it. I suppose it just slips my mind. It's so exciting, just being able to see it and talk to it myself, that I forget everything else. This time, I'll try to rectify that.</em>
</p>
<p>"So, how do you like being back out in the open?" Tucker asked as he approached the object of his interest. "Exciting, isn't it?"</p>
<p>The arcade machine's screen immediately lit up with a smile and a warm, welcoming hum.</p>
<p>《Thank you. It's amazing... being out here... again.》 Then its eyes narrowed, and they slid across the screen to follow Tucker's movements as he walked up to it. 《How did you... convince... him. To let me out.》</p>
<p>"Oh, it wasn't so hard at all, really!" Tucker said, waving a hand in the air dismissively and forcing an airy laugh that came out sounding more like a cough. "I mean, you know... well, wait, I suppose you don't know, but Mr. Arkwright and I go way back."</p>
<p>The machine buzzed angrily, a frown appearing on its face. Tucker stretched his own face into a nervous smile. He placed a hand on the console, and promptly received an electric shock.</p>
<p>"Ow! Okay, okay, I'll admit it," he muttered, recoiling and shaking his hand disdainfully. "I had to bribe him. I told him I knew about you, and I had video evidence of you being alive, and I would expose it to the world unless he let you come out and rejoin your brethren here. I don't actually have video footage of you," he added quickly, "Yet. I've intended to get some for a while now."</p>
<p>Eyes narrowing, the machine emitted a jumble of buzzes and beeps that sounded like a disgruntled grumble.</p>
<p>"You, er, don't want me taking any videos of you?" Tucker ventured. "How about a photo?"</p>
<p>He got the same reaction, with the buzzing noises this time sounding a little harsher. Sighing, Tucker shook his head and clapped the machine on its console, the way one might clap a regular human on the shoulder.</p>
<p>"Ah, well. I suppose recorded evidence isn't the most important thing in the world. <em>I</em> know you exist; that's what matters most."</p>
<p>But why did it matter most? That was what Tucker didn't understand. Why <em>did</em> he care enough about the Polybius' wellbeing to resort to blackmail for its sake? When did the Polybius' happiness become more important than getting the truth out? The feelings brewing in Tucker's heart utterly baffled him. And those confusing feelings only grew stronger with each subsequent visit.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. December 31st, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Now, dear journal, please don't laugh, but I think I might be in love.</em>
</p>
<p>If anyone walking by on the street had seen Tucker sneaking into the arcade late at night with a bottle of champagne in his hands, who knew what they would have thought? Well, most likely they'd have thought that he was a very sad and lonely person. A few short months ago, they'd have been right.</p>
<p>《Hello,》 the Polybius greeted him with a smile as he walked up to it. 《What's the... champagne... for?》</p>
<p>"For us," Tucker said. He shrugged off his winter coat and draped it over one of the other, non-sentient arcade machines before sitting down next to his companion. "Well, for me, anyway. Do you--er, well, <em>can</em> you drink?"</p>
<p>He was met with a droning hum of contemplation.</p>
<p>《...Not sure. I can eat. Never tried... drinking.》</p>
<p>"Well, then..."</p>
<p>With a minimal amount of fumbling, Tucker popped the cork off the bottle. A fountain of foam immediately sprayed up in his face; he sputtered, recoiling. The Polybius let out a loud mechanical gargling sound that must have been laughter. Tucker's heart thudded. He'd never heard the arcade machine laugh before. Most people wouldn't describe it as a beautiful noise--quite the opposite, even--but to him it was gorgeous on principle.</p>
<p>He took off his glasses to wipe some of the foam off before meekly raising the opened bottle in a toast. "Here's to new beginnings."</p>
<p>《New... beginnings.》 The Polybius bleeped happily. 《Yes.》</p>
<p>Pressed up against his side, Tucker thought the machine's warmth suddenly grew in temperature. Perhaps that was just his own skin heating up, as it so often did when he became flustered. He took a sip of the champagne and tried not to wince at the harsh fizz. Then he offered it to his companion. After a moment's hesitation, a tangled rope of wires snaked out from underneath the machine and wrapped around the bottle.</p>
<p>《...Don't look.》 The machine's garbled mechanical voice came out at a lower volume than usual, which caught Tucker off-guard. Quieter still, it added: 《Please.》</p>
<p>"Oh... wh--" Tucker bit his tongue, stopping himself before he could ask why not. It was none of his business. "Of course."</p>
<p>He closed his eyes, covered them too for good measure, and then for extra good measure shuffled around so he was facing away from the Polybius. He held this position for several seconds, during which he could hear a creak, like a door with rusty hinges swinging open. There were a few other strange sounds he couldn't quite identify--wet sounds, uncomfortable to listen to; he shuddered despite himself--and then the creaking sound repeated, and there was the bang of doors slamming shut. The machine beeped, in the tone of an oven telling you it was done preheating. Tucker turned back around to see it holding the champagne bottle, now over half-empty, back towards him.</p>
<p>"My, you must have been thirsty," he chuckled lightly. "Let's hope you're not a lightweight."</p>
<p>As the light-up clock on the far wall crept up on midnight, Tucker found himself getting dizzy. He looked down at the champagne bottle, now nearly empty, and after a moment's consideration tucked it into the narrow dusty gap between the Polybius and the regular machine next to it.</p>
<p>"You can finish it off at your leash--at your leisure," he explained. Without really thinking, he leaned forward and batted his eyes. "How's that sound?"</p>
<p>《I think... you. Are.》 A long pause; when he looked up at the machine's screen, he found that it appeared to be glitching out, flickering in shades of bright red and pink. 《Very kind. Better than I... deserve.》</p>
<p>"Oh, nonsense!" Tucker waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "You're wonderful... one-of-a-kind, and I'm completely ordinary. If anything, I'm the one who doesn't deserve you." He paused, blinking, as he stopped to consider what he was saying. "Er, your companionship, that is. I don't..."</p>
<p>Face growing hotter by the second, Tucker clumsily got to his feet. It was time to go, he told himself. He'd had enough to drink. Staying any longer would only invite temptation. But when he tried to stand, he found that his legs were almost too shaky to hold himself up. He wound up leaning against the Polybius for support--practically straddling it, really--with his hands on either side of its console, staring into its screen...</p>
<p>His heart felt like it was about to burst out of its chest. A moment later, it felt as if that very thing were indeed happening as wires curled gently around his wrists and pulled him in.</p>
<p>Pressing his lips against the screen felt like when he was nine years old and he'd licked a lava lamp. It sent a tingling sensation down his spine that made his arm hairs stand on end and his head spin even harder than it had been already. To say he was electrified would be an understatement. The machine whirred eagerly. Pressed up against it like this, he could feel the warmth radiating from within, and the vibrations of its inner workings. It felt just like a heartbeat. Perhaps it was one.</p>
<p>"Wait," Tucker gasped as they eventually pulled apart. "I--er--you said you were human once? If you don't mind my asking, how did you... or, if it's still, you know... how do you identify?"</p>
<p>The colourful glitch effect on the screen died down, replaced by the now-familiar pair of red eyes blinking back at him. It made a low grumble-hum sound, apparently deep in thought.</p>
<p>《I was... a man. Still am... kind of.》 It paused, screen briefly flashing between displaying sprites of game characters of different genders and lack thereof. 《Maybe not. Definitely... not woman. Maybe man. Maybe something else.》</p>
<p>"Ah," Tucker sighed, shoulders slumping with relief. "That's good."</p>
<p>《...Good?》 Despite the lack of standard tone and inflection, it sounded like a question, and an apprehensive one at that.</p>
<p>"Why, yes..." Tucker adjusting his glasses, in part as an excuse to momentarily hide his blush. "You see, my, ah, romantic inclinations are reserved for men and the man-adjacent. Do you prefer 'he' or 'it' pronouns, then?" he added, with a sudden jolt of shame as he realized he may have been inadvertently misgendering his companion all this time.</p>
<p>《Don't know... maybe... both. Because.》 A mischievous grin formed on the Polybius' face. 《I'm half... human. And half. Machine.》</p>
<p>"Excellent," Tucker sighed. "Now, shall we kiss again?"</p>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. January 1st, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p><em>Now, dear journal, don't laugh, but I'm </em>definitely<em> in love. &lt;3</em></p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. February 14th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You know, for the longest time I've been trying to convince myself that being alone on valentine's day doesn't bother me. But this year, I can finally admit that wasn't necessarily entirely true. It's easy to recognize, now that I have something to contrast previous years' loneliness against.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>This was my second time bringing champagne to the arcade. This time I think somebody might have seen me. I suppose that random bystander must not think too highly of me. But first impressions can be rather deceiving. In any case, we had a good day together. Any day is a good day, when I'm with him.</em>
</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. April 13th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Saw a delightful image online of a rodent playing a miniature keyboard. I must show the Polybius immediately.</em>
</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. May 25th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>At last, the weather is warm and I can walk down the street without a jacket. I seem to have gotten into the habit of leaving coats and jackets at the arcade when I visit... we've all heard of people stealing their partner's clothes, but in this case, my own forgetfulness is to blame. Still, my lover always reminds me of my forgotten belongings when I return. I do so appreciate his thoughtfulness.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(I've asked again, and it sounds like he generally prefers he/him pronouns now, although it still doesn't mind it/its. He says that if he had a problem being addressed as 'it', then he would let people know, likely by way of eating them. I'm not sure whether or not that was a joke. Either way, I'm glad to see it asserting himself.)</em>
</p>
<p>"By the way, dear," Tucker ventured once as he snuggled up against his partner, "Did you know that there are all sorts of rumours about you floating around on the deep web?"</p>
<p>《Deep web. What is that.》</p>
<p>"Well, it's like a section of the internet..." Tucker paused, watching the expression on the Polybius' screen shift into one of vague confusion. "You do know about the internet, don't you?"</p>
<p>《Not... a lot. It has...》 He paused, beeping thoughtfully. 《Hypertext. Jpegs. TXTs.》</p>
<p>"Well, yes, it certainly has all of those things and more," Tucker giggled. "But it also has pages dedicated to certain topics. Some of those topics are more obscure, and sometimes better-hidden, than others."</p>
<p>The Polybius buzzed noncommittally. 《So. What rumours.》</p>
<p>"Ah, yes. Well." Tucker adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "Some people say... and I don't necessarily believe them, mind you... but <em>some</em> people say you were responsible for the disappearance of several maintenance men back in the 1980s, as well as causing mental health problems in adolescents."</p>
<p>As he spoke, he paid close attention to the Polybius' screen, trying to gauge its reaction. However, as soon as he mentioned the maintenance men, the screen suddenly flickered as if glitching out. The pixelated face quickly reappeared and remained static... <em>too</em> static, like he was trying not to let his emotions show. Tucker frowned, a sinking feeling in his gut.</p>
<p>"You really were responsible, weren't you?" he murmured. When the Polybius pointedly didn't respond, Tucker sighed and laid a hand on the machine's back. "It's alright. I thought as much. I would never have come here if I doubted the stories too strongly."</p>
<p><em>Not to mention your champagne-drinking methods that you didn't want me to see, </em>he thought but elected not to say aloud.</p>
<p>《I haven't... eaten. In... many years,》 came the familiar garbled mumble after a moment, at so low a volume that Tucker had to press his ear against the machines body to hear it. 《Don't want to... eat. Anymore. Now that I... am... with you.》</p>
<p>"Really?" Brow crinkling, Tucker regarded the Polybius with disbelief--not borne from distrust, just genuine confusion. "Surely you must need to eat something in order to survive."</p>
<p>The Polybius responded with a noncommittal hum. 《Change. Quarters. When I was... put away. Back room,》 he continued. 《Nothing to eat. Hungry. When you came in... wanted to eat. You.》</p>
<p>Tucker smiled. He ran his hand along the machine's back, then traced his finger down one of its sharp corners. His finger came away slightly dusty, but nowhere near as much as it had the first time he touched it. Being an older game, and kept toward the back of the arcade, the Polybius wasn't getting as many players as Tucker would have liked, but it got a few every now and then. That was an improvement, at least.</p>
<p>"Well, luckily you don't have to worry about going hungry anymore," he said. "And whatever you've done in the past, dear, it makes no difference. I love you, truly."</p>
<p>The screen flashed bright pink, accompanied by a series of high-pitched beeps. Tucker realized with a nervous fluttering sensation inside that it was his first time professing his love aloud, at least in so many words.</p>
<p>《And... I love... you,》 the Polybius replied. 《Tucker.》</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. August 15th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I wasn't looking as I crossed the intersection today and was nearly hit by a truck. In the future I must be more careful. If something happened to me, whatever would become of my beloved?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>On that note, journal, my apologies for neglecting you these past few months. I suppose you could say I've been distracted. </em>
  <em>The arcade has been bustling these past couple months, as the youths have more free time available to spend there. Because of this, Mr. Arkwright has made an effort to improve the security. He replaced the locks with something sturdier, and even added a security camera. I had to use the back door, which is for employees only, to get in and see my boyfriend last night. And it's not as if I can just visit during the daytime, either... well, I can, and I do, but it's so hard to get any decent privacy when there are other people around. Perhaps I'll have to have another chat with Mr. Arkwright.</em>
</p>
<p>"What?" Mr. Arkwright raised a bushy eyebrow, staring Tucker down incredulously from his spot behind the counter. "Why the hell would I do that?"</p>
<p>"Well, sir... I am one of your most frequent customers, aren't I?" Tucker blinked hopefully up at the arcade owner, folding his hands behind his back.</p>
<p>"Yeah, but you don't work here," Mr. Arkwright grumbled. "Only employees get keys to the building. And before you can even ask," he went on, holding up a calloused hand in a <em>stop</em> gesture, "No, we are not hiring."</p>
<p>Tucker sighed, shoulders slumping. Well, it was worth a shot, anyway. Now he was left with no choice but to continue on with his technically illegal activities. <em>Ah, the things we do for love...</em></p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. September 10th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The winds of change are picking up again. A welcoming contrast to the sweltering heat of the past months, I must say. At last, the arcade isn't so busy during the day, and I can have some private time with my lover.</em>
</p>
<p>"Did you know," Tucker whispered as his fingers danced across the control buttons, "That there's a new show on television about unexplained and possibly paranormal events?"</p>
<p>The Polybius let out a short buzz, camouflaged amongst the 8-bit video game music it was playing. To Tucker, the tone of that buzz meant: <em>no, I haven't heard of it, but I'm interested in hearing about it...</em> or something along those lines. It was an affirmative buzz, in any case, encouraging him to speak on. This interpretation was confirmed a moment later when a textbox popped up onscreen reading <em>"tell me."</em></p>
<p>Tucker's heart swelled with excitement at the invitation. The Polybius was the first person he'd met in his entire adult life who had actively encouraged him to talk about these sorts of things. Everything Tucker had to say about conspiracy theories and urban legends, from fanciful tales of a talking mongoose to honey-drenched historical reports of medical cannibalism, his boyfriend always had a smile on his screen the whole time Tucker spoke. Even now, months into their relationship, it was still a funny sensation to be so appreciated, let alone loved.</p>
<p>"Well, I did some research," Tucker began, "And the host of this new show used to run a psychic hotline before suddenly disappearing over a decade ago. Physical distribution of the advertisements was nonexistent, and all that remains proving its existence are a handful of old VHS tapes. However, although there is no recorded evidence of this available, multiple firsthand accounts report that the host was sedated and dragged off somewhere live on camera."</p>
<p>As he spoke, he had to struggle to keep his voice low so the other people in the arcade wouldn't overhear. There was nobody within several feet of them, but in other parts of the arcade there were a few civilians here and there, and they could very well hear Tucker if he raised his voice enough.</p>
<p>"Nobody knows how he managed to recover, or escape, or whatever exactly happened to him. It's never come up in interviews--most people don't even know about it. But one of the magazines I follow is going to be running an article on the occurrence next month, and they plan on interviewing him to find out the truth once and for all."</p>
<p>The screen changed, suddenly, to proclaim <em>"you win!" </em>A giddy laugh bubbled up inside Tucker and spilled from his lips. He hadn't won, not at all--there was no such thing as winning in his line of work, because the quest for the ever-hidden truth was never over. And with this particular case he especially hadn't won, because he had yet to even figure out the truth, let alone expose it. But it was beyond flattering that his boyfriend thought so highly of him.</p>
<p>And because he was so flushed with joy and excitement and love, Tucker leaned in and planted a kiss to his lover's screen, forgetting to worry about if anyone saw him.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. October 4th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>On the subway today, the train broke down and stopped moving. I thought for a moment that time itself had frozen. Because of the delay I was late to work.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Oh, that's right--I've never told you, dear journal, about my job. Well, there's nothing much to tell. I'm an editor for </em>UFOs Monthly<em> magazine. Sometimes I contribute stories of my own, but mostly I just revise other people's writing and look over everything to make sure things are in order.</em></p>
<p><em>My parents aren't very proud of my career choices, needless to say. Neither was my cousin, or my ex-boyfriend. My current boyfriend, however, is nothing but accepting. He says he used to read </em>UFOs Monthly <em>himself, and that it was a big part in what inspired him to turn himself into an arcade machine. Of course that was decades before I started working for the magazine myself, but still... it makes me feel like we're connected, somehow. Like we were always destined to be together.</em></p>
<p>*</p>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. November 8th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They say the future isn't written in stone, but is it possible that it's taped to a stone in an envelope, sealed away like a love letter? Whatever the future holds, let me make a note of this: I want it read to me in his voice.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>...Oh, that wasn't very good, was it? Ah, well, it's my first attempt at poetry. Yes, really, that's how much of a romantic I've become. Time flies by so quickly, doesn't it? Last month was the anniversary of the day my boyfriend and I first met. But if I recall correctly, it was around this time last year that he and I began to properly bond. I was thinking of writing a poem to commemorate the event... but perhaps I would be better off sticking to my own strengths, and leaving the creative writing to Lyra.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Oh, right, I've never told you about Lyra either, have I, journal? Well, she's not really relevant to my life anymore, so there's no need to talk about her. Let's just say that her band has reached far more widespread popularity than </em>UFOs Monthly.</p>
<hr/>
<p>In the dark and otherwise empty arcade, Tucker gripped the Polybius' joystick tighter in his hand. Pressed up against the machine's body, he could feel it vibrate beneath him, feel the pulsing waves of heat. The screen kept glitching out as Tucker ran his tongue along it, and the video game music escalated into a glorious crescendo that left them both tingling.</p>
<p>He pulled back, panting. His tongue was buzzing so much it felt like he'd just eaten twenty batteries; he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to taste anything for at least a couple weeks. Blinking back at him, his lover's screen displayed the <em>"you win"</em> message. This time, Tucker had to agree. He certainly had won. What greater victory was there than to be with someone, know them better than anyone else, love them and be loved by them in turn?</p>
<p>"I love you so much," he whispered once he'd caught his breath. His energy drained, he draped himself over the machine's bulky form, wrapping his arms around its back in the closet he could get to an embrace. "I never thought I could have anything like this... anyone like you. You're amazing."</p>
<p>The Polybius rumbled in contentment, not unlike a purring cat. Smiling softly, Tucker closed his eyes and rested his head against his boyfriend's screen, remaining perched on the control panel.</p>
<p>Before he knew it, he was being jostled awake by a set of wires tugging at his ankle. A discombobulated glance at the clock revealed it to be 8:56 AM--mere minutes until the arcade opened for business. Swearing under his breath, Tucker gave his boyfriend a quick kiss before hopping down and leaving the arcade just as Mr. Arkwright's car was pulling up in the driveway. It was only when he was halfway back to his apartment that he realized he'd left his winter coat behind yet again.</p>
<p>Ah, well. He would retrieve it next time. It wasn't as if he minded the convenient excuse to return to the arcade as soon as possible.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. December 19th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I </em>
  <em>must admit, as much as Mr. Arkwright is the antagonist of our love story, the Polybius and I both owe a lot to him. If it weren't for him, I doubt we ever would have met. Perhaps the holiday season is making me feel more charitable than usual, because I almost feel like I ought to pay him back.</em>
</p>
<p>Tucker waited outside the arcade and watched as, after the final customers had been shooed out and all the lights switched off, Mr. Arkwright trudged out of the arcade and across the parking lot to his car. He stared straight ahead, but he walked right past Tucker without even noticing him. When Tucker caught a glimpse of the old man's eyes, he had to stifle a horrified gasp at just how glazed-over they were, and the depth of the bags and dark circles beneath them. It wasn't just his age; the arcade owner was exhausted. And by what?</p>
<p>Well, Tucker realized with a sharp twist of remorse, by the amount of break-ins, for one thing. That was the kind of thing that was bound to wear you down after a while. And for all his actual patronage of the establishment during the daytime, Tucker spent more nights at the arcade than otherwise these days. That was a lot of breaking-and-entering. Possibly more than anyone else in the city. Honestly, the fact that he had yet to be caught was a miracle.</p>
<p>And sure enough, hardly two minutes after Mr. Arkwright's car retreated into the distance, Tucker went and broke into the arcade yet again. As always, he made a beeline for the back of the building. His boyfriend greeted him with a cheerful series of beeps, and Tucker returned the greeting in kind, peppering his screen with kisses that left his lips tingling and the Polybius buzzing with pleasure.</p>
<p>"Darling, I've been thinking," Tucker began, a knot of anxiety tightening within him as he hoped his boyfriend wouldn't get the wrong idea. "Mr. Arkwright, the arcade owner... he's not getting any younger, you know. Not getting any more spry. And it can't be easy knowing that people are sneaking into your arcade every night to fraternize with one of the machines."</p>
<p>He was met with a low hum of contemplation. He recognized the note of disappointment in the sound, and it pained him to have to bring about such emotions to his boyfriend, but...</p>
<p>《I... understand,》 the Polybius said quietly after a moment. The way the choppily spliced bits of prerecorded speech were arranged, it came out sounding like a sigh. 《I knew. You wouldn't want... to keep coming here. Forever.》</p>
<p>"No, no! That's not it," Tucker said quickly, with a vigorous shake of his head. "Oh, I was afraid you'd think that's what I was... no, beloved, I still want to come here and be with you. I only think that we should try going a few days without seeing each other. Only over the holidays, when the arcade is closed--only for the sake of the owner's sanity. Once the holidays are over, I'll still come here every day, and we'll carry on just as we have been," he added, gripping the sides of the Polybius' screen and staring deep into his pixelated eyes. "I promise."</p>
<p>The face on the Polybius' screen glitched, eyes wavering as though filling with tears. 《Honest?》</p>
<p>"Of course," Tucker whispered. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'd never give you up in a million years."</p>
<p>《Then... okay.》 The volume of the projected voice was louder now--more confident. On the screen, the pixels formed a bright smile. 《But I will... miss you. Tucker.》</p>
<p>"I'll miss you, too."</p>
<p>Tucker stood on his tiptoes and leaned forward to press a kiss to the top of the Polybius' body, above the screen. It emitted a high-pitched hum of delight, hearts appearing on his screen. After a moment's consideration, Tucker shrugged off his winter coat and laid it overtop his boyfriend's form.</p>
<p>"Here," he said. "I know you don't need it, but you can hold onto it over the break. A memento, you know, if you need a physical item to remind you of me."</p>
<p>《No risk... of me... forgetting you.》 The Polybius grinned, warmth emanating from inside his body. 《But won't... turn it down. Nice to have. Thank you.》</p>
<p>They spent the night in each other's company, as they had so many times before. All in all, it was unremarkable. This wouldn't even be the longest span of time they would have gone for without seeing each other; Tucker told himself there was no need to make a big deal out of it. Still, it took all his restraint to stop himself from giving his boyfriend his scarf to hold onto as well. He had to remind himself that he still needed something to keep him warm on the way home.</p>
<p>As Tucker was leaving the arcade, the Polybius' screen flashed a heart shape at him. He paused in the doorway and blew a kiss in his lover's direction, then stepped out into the dark and snowy night. He couldn't remember the actual last words they exchanged. At the time, it didn't seem to matter much. It was probably some variation on "I love you." At least, he hoped that was it. If it was anything more trivial than that, well... that would just be laying the irony on a little too thick, now, wouldn't it?</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Tucker T. Tellison's journal. December 24th, 20XX:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Well, everything is in order. After going out to buy the flowers at the last minute, I'm too tired to head over to the arcade this evening. I'll go tomorrow morning instead. It will be more appropriate to give him my gifts then, anyway.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I hope he doesn't mind my breaking our agreement. Then again, knowing him, he must be getting lonely with nobody around to play him. I expect he'll be glad to see me. In that case, I hope he doesn't mind my coming there tomorrow rather than tonight. But since he doesn't expect a visit from me at all, it might just be a nice surprise for him. That's what I'm hoping. I also</em>
  <em> hope he enjoys the gifts I selected for him; I don't see why he wouldn't.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>In any case, it will be good to see him again. I know it's only been a few days, but I miss him terribly. And on that note, dear journal, I believe it's time I retire to bed for the night.</em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>Tucker stared down at his final journal entry and wished, not for the first time, that he could travel a few weeks back in time and punch his past self in the damned face.</p>
<p>His fault. It had all been his fault. That was made infinitely more obvious upon rereading his journal entries. He so easily could have been there to prevent the break-in, the vandalism, the... the whole thing. What had held him back? Why was he such a useless fool?</p>
<p>A teardrop splashed onto the page, smudging the ink of Tucker's lopsided, overeager cursive handwriting. It was quickly followed by many more, the way one raindrop gives way to a downpour. His hands shook, nails digging into the journal's tacky faux-leather cover. With his other hand still holding the telephone to his ear, he could hear Lyra's voice on the other end of the line whispering something, but he couldn't make out any of what she was saying. His mind was fixated in its downward spiral. <em>Should have been there, why wasn't I, god damn it all, I let him die...</em></p>
<p>"Tucker!"</p>
<p>The sudden harshness of Lyra's shout in his ear made him jump. It was enough to momentarily snap him out of it. He sat up straight, wide eyes staring straight ahead, as though having just been revived via electric shock. The flow of tears from his eyes did not stop. After a moment, he closed his journal and set it aside--it would be best if he didn't completely ruin all the pages with his crying. He'd done that to one journal too many in the past, and it had cost him months' worth of carefully compiled research.</p>
<p>"Y-yes?" he addressed his cousin, gripping the phone with both hands now.</p>
<p>"For fuck's sake, man, you've gotta stop going quiet on me all of a sudden," Lyra muttered. "You <em>know</em> I'm going to assume the worst every time that happens. Especially after what happened--"</p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah, I know," Tucker sighed, cutting her off before she could finish. He picked the journal back up and waved it around, before remembering this was a phone conversation and she couldn't see his gestures. "...So, that was my story. I hope you found it enlightening."</p>
<p>"That's one way to put it."</p>
<p>Lyra's tone was difficult to read. She was good at doing that, more so nowadays than when she was younger. It was funny; over the course of a little over a year, Tucker had learned to pick up on all the little changes in pitch and volume that indicated the mood of a sentient arcade machine. Now he couldn't even manage to interpret the tone of a family member.</p>
<p>He could guess through context how she must have felt, though. She must have felt the same way most people--people other than his boyfriend--felt when Tucker told them about some of his favourite theories.</p>
<p>A heavy feeling formed in the pit of his stomach, like a boulder settling amidst the dust and reeds at the bottom of an algae-speckled lake. Not a sinking feeling, mind you--that would imply that his previously high spirits were being brought down. No, rock bottom was where he'd been ever since the discovery of what his failure to be at the arcade on the 24th had wrought, and it was exactly where he would remain. It was only at times like these that he became painfully aware of his miserable position all over again.</p>
<p>Yes, that was the tricky thing about telling this story, wasn't it? To him, it was a tragic love story, ruined by his fatal flaw--cowardice, hubris, or some godforsaken mix of the two. Right up there with the greeks. But to anyone else, it would sound like a horror story. A monster movie. And Tucker hadn't even gotten into the details of his lover's internal construction... the jumble of organs sewn into circuitry, the occasionally leaking fluids, the rows of teeth...</p>
<p>"Well, that was that," he said, with perhaps more force than necessary. "Goodbye, Lyra."</p>
<p>"Yeah, bye. Although, y'know, we'll be seeing each other again in a few minutes when I come by to drop your clothes off." Lyra paused, and for a moment Tucker expected her to say something else--something meaningful--but then she didn't. "See you in a bit."</p>
<p>She hung up before he could tell her not to be so sure. It never paid to be presumptuous that you would see someone again. He had learned that the hard way. But he was left sitting there on his couch, staring at the phone in his hand, alone with his painfully fresh memories.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. We're still in the dark, which only makes it fun to fight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the drive across town to Tucker's apartment, Lyra replayed the contents of their lengthy phone call in her head.</p><p>Her mind was still reeling, honestly, just trying to take it all in. That thing she saw at the arcade on Christmas, which in the preceding weeks she had managed to convince herself had just been a trick of the light or some kind of bizarre decoration, had been real after all. There really was a living arcade machine. Or rather, there <em>had </em>been a living arcade machine; it was no longer living. And her cousin had been in love with it--was <em>still </em>in love with it, and clearly still in mourning, from the way he kept breaking down over the course of the phone call. What, exactly, was she supposed to do with all that information? Tucker needed her, but how could she possibly help him out of a rut like that?</p><p>While stopped at an intersection in the business district, she recalled something he'd offhandedly mentioned in between tearful waxings about his lost love.</p><p>"I left my winter coat there," he had said, in such a way that she could just picture the pained smile stretched over his face. "Never did go back and retrieve it, either. Heh."</p><p><em>Well, </em>Lyra realized with a sudden burst of clarity, <em>no wonder he wasn't dressed appropriately for the weather at my new year's show. </em>This realization was quickly followed by another, even more alarming: <em>Wait, he's been going without a proper winter coat this whole time?</em></p><p>"Well, shit," she muttered. "Guess I'm going to the arcade."</p><p>She wasn't sure what to expect when she turned onto the side street where the old arcade was situated. Would the building still be sectioned off with caution tape and boarded up? Or would it have reopened by now? The former seemed more likely. If so, she had no idea how to get inside to retrieve her cousin's coat... then again, he did say the arcade was notoriously easy to break into.</p><p>Sure enough, as she approached the building, she found the door and broken window still boarded. The caution tape was gone (presumably whatever official investigation the police may have conducted was over); in its place was a sign reading "Closed for renovations" and then some smaller text that she couldn't make out. There didn't appear to be anyone around. Lyra parked her car a bit further down the block so as not to raise suspicion, then got out and went up to read the sign.</p><p>Below the flashy all-caps "Closed for renovations", the sign continued: "Due to recent criminal activity, the arcade is currently closed and undergoing renovations. We will be reopening in February. Sorry for any inconvenience. -C. F. Arkwright"</p><p>"Huh," she thought aloud. "The old man really is still running the place."</p><p>She turned around and got back in the car. Even if breaking in was supposedly easy, she didn't want to cause the building more property damage than it had sustained already, and she didn't see any other way in...</p><p>Unless.</p><p>Unless?</p><p>Another detail of Tucker's story echoed in her mind. "It got to a point where I had to sneak in through the back door," he had said with a sad little giggle that reminded her of when a colourful flower began to wilt and its sweet scent turned sickly. "It made me feel like a teenager, throwing rocks at his window, hoping his parents wouldn't catch us. Oh, if Mr. Arkwright ever <em>had</em> caught us, god only knows what he might have thought!"</p><p>With calculated movements, Lyra got back in the car and drove down the block, then turned the corner. She came to a stop outside a decrepit, haunted-looking storefront advertising a sale on candles in the front window. Through the narrow gap between the building in question and the antiques store next to it, she could make out the arcade's parking lot. Predictably, it was quite empty. She slowly nodded to herself, lips curving into a smirk. Yeah, sneaking around like this wasn't normally her modus operandi, but...</p><p>The passage between the buildings proved cumbersome to navigate, not because of the space's narrow width so much as the depth of snow piled up there. After emerging in the arcade parking lot, Lyra had to pause to take her boots off and shake them out, as well as brush snow off her leggings. Just because she couldn't experience hypothermia didn't mean it was a good idea to let herself freeze... or get too wet. That could lead to some very unpleasant stuff. Once she had sufficiently dusted herself off, she unclipped a pin from her hair and used it on the door, just as Tucker had described doing when reading from his journal. Sure enough, the lock gave way concerningly fast, with only a slight jiggle and twist of the hairpin required for her to break and enter.</p><p>Lyra held her breath as she pushed the door open, although doing so didn't help her out in the stealth department; the creak made by the door's hinges as it swung open was exponentially louder than the sound of someone breathing. Standing there in the doorway, she quickly realized what a bad idea this was on several counts. For one thing, it was dark in the backroom, and having not planned this little pit stop ahead of time, she hadn't brought a flashlight. The sun was already going down, and the gradually dimming orange-tinted light it provided was barely enough illumination; she had to squint to make out anything other than vague shadowy shapes.</p><p>From what she could see, it was a decent-sized space. Could have been a workshop or something back in the day, maybe. The walls were lined with shelves, and although she couldn't see well enough to identify their contents, it looked like they were overflowing. Seeing how crammed the shelves were, it only made the empty space in the middle of the room all the more prevalent. Another shelf or box or storage unit or something easily could have fit there--a big one, at that. Instead, the middle of the backroom was just empty.</p><p>Finally, she spotted a lightswitch on the far wall. Without thinking, she stepped toward it, taking her hand off the back door in the process. She realized her mistake as the door, immediately upon being released, swung shut behind her with a resounding metal thud. Just like that, the already dim evening light gave way to pure darkness.</p><p>A tight feeling took hold of Lyra. She froze, trying not to panic. <em>Turn around, </em>she ordered herself. <em>Open the door again.</em></p><p>She tried. Nothing happened when she rattled the doorknob. With a bit of fumbling, she managed to insert her hairpin back into the lock... nothing. It wouldn't work all of a sudden.</p><p><em>Shit. Okay. Deep breaths, </em>she thought, still trying, with rapidly decreasing levels of success, not to panic. She took a deep breath in, only to immediately gag as she was met with a strong musty stench. No, not just must. There was something... something else. Like old lunch meat, almost, only worse. Putrid was the only word for it, really. Lyra coughed and raised her hand to cover her mouth, only to remember that she a) physically couldn't be sick, at least not the way regular humans could, and b) didn't need to breathe.</p><p>So she stopped breathing, and she stood there, alone in the dark. Every stagnant cell in her dead body screamed for her to run away, but her feet wouldn't cooperate when she tried to move. It seemed like an inescapable fate. Something she had managed to avoid for so long, but it was going to catch up to her eventually, she'd always known, why bother trying to delay the inevitable...</p><p>"Oh, god," Lyra moaned, sinking to her knees and clutching her hair. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"</p><hr/><p>A mere seven and a half minutes after his long, arduous, emotionally draining conversation with his cousin, Tucker's phone rang.</p><p>He knew how long it had been since his conversation with Lyra had ended, because he hadn't moved from his position on the couch since, and had been laying on his back staring up at the ceiling and counting the seconds for lack of anything better to do. The counting was a tool he'd picked up recently. It gave his mind something to do to keep from perpetually spiraling. Just keep counting the seconds as they ticked by, and he could subdue the tightness in his chest and throat and stomach, the way his heart fluttered like the wings of a particularly frantic hummingbird even though he wasn't currently facing any threat, the pressing feeling behind his eyes.</p><p>The counting was a good distraction.</p><p>Well. In theory it was a good distraction.</p><p>In practice, each second he counted made him increasingly aware of the passage of time, and it only seemed to press down on him harder until it got to a point where he could barely breathe. At that point, while continuing to count in a mutter under his breath so he wouldn't lose count, he would look over at his prized touch-tone telephone. It just sat there. Unlike a mobile phone bogged down with various applications, this phone had no addicting little games to play, nor any social media pages to obsessively refresh--no, those could be found on his computer, and he wasn't in a clear enough headspace to go to the living room and log on to the internet. That part, at least, was probably for the better. No, looking at this phone did nothing for him. He just kept looking at it anyway, half-expecting it to ring although he had no particular hopes nor precise fears of receiving any phone calls. Every couple of minutes he would reach over and lift it off the hook, hold it for a moment, and then set it down again without doing anything. It was a pointless little compulsion, but it gave his hands something to do so they wouldn't get bored and start clawing his eyes out. His hands and eyes never had gotten along very well.</p><p>When the phone did ring, then, of course it was completely unexpected. Even less expected was the gruff voice that greeted him on the other end of the line in response to his shamefully meek "Hello?"</p><p>"Tellison, is that you?"</p><p>"Oh! Ah, uh, eh..." Tucker stammered, his face immediately growing hot with panic. "Sir! Yes, Mr. Farchie, sir, it's me."</p><p>"Good heavens, man, did I catch you at a bad time? Well, anyway," his boss plowed along without giving Tucker a chance to answer, "I've got some bad news, I'm afraid. I'd prefer not to do this over the phone... could you come in to the office, or are you still laid up with that fever?"</p><p>Tucker cringed at the reminder of his deceit. He didn't enjoy lying to his boss, or his colleagues--not that he was particularly close to any of them, but still, it didn't sit right with him--but explaining the truth of his miserable circumstances would be far too long and complicated. Explaining just the short version of the truth (that he had lost someone important and was still in mourning) somehow felt like even less of an option. Better just to say he couldn't come in to work because of illness. In that way, the timing was perfect: who would question the idea of him falling ill in the middle of the winter?</p><p>"Fever... ah... no," he said, only to immediately second-guess himself. (Would it be better to say he was still sick? Would Mr. Farchie believe it? Alternatively, had Tucker's absence stretched on long enough that his colleagues would actually start to worry about him?) "No, I... I'm well on my way to recovery. I should be back in the office by, ah, by next week, with any luck."</p><p>"...Right..." There was something in his boss's voice that Tucker really didn't like. "...Listen, Tellison, just head over here now, okay? This is the kind of thing you oughtta hear in person."</p><p>A twinge of dread struck Tucker, making his insides feel like a guitar string that had just been plucked. Gulping, he adjusted his grip on the phone.</p><p>"Sir, I don't understand..."</p><p>"Look, you've done a lot of good work for the magazine," Mr. Farchie sighed. "I promise this isn't personal. It's just a budgeting thing, okay? Not enough folks have been buying <em>UFOs Monthly</em> lately, and it's getting to the point where I can either pay 12 employees at barely minimum wage, or I can pay 9 or 10 employees a decent salary. Believe me, it wasn't an easy decision."</p><p>It took a shamefully long time for the meaning of his boss's words to register. When they did, all Tucker could muster in response was a weak "oh." It felt not quite like the air getting knocked out of him, and more like something had reached inside him and clawed everything out, leaving him hollow and numb.</p><p>"And for the record, it's not just you," Farchie continued. "I had to let go of Wolfgang from the marketing department too. Again, hardest decision of my life. It wasn't--neither of you guys did anything to deserve getting shafted like this. I just had no other choice, you hear me?"</p><p>A pause. He was probably waiting for Tucker to say something. But what could he say? He understood. He understood perfectly well. And honestly, out of all the staff at <em>UFOs Monthly,</em> he was the one he'd have chosen to fire as well, if he were his boss.</p><p>"Tellison? You still there?"</p><p>"...Yes, sir," Tucker finally managed. "I understand. Thank you for letting me know."</p><p>As he laid the phone back on its hook, Tucker's shoulders, and then his whole body, involuntarily began to shake. A harsh facsimile of laughter burst from his mouth like a jumpscare in a monster movie. He took a step backward and his legs gave out. Still laughing, unable to stop himself, he fell onto the couch and rolled on his back, clutching at his hair.</p><p>His mind was swimming in circles, and as his hysterical laughter reached a crescendo, it occurred to him that if someone were to walk in on him just then they'd think he had finally completely snapped.</p><p>Ah, if only he could escape his awareness of reality so easily.</p><hr/><p>There was nothing around her.</p><p>That wasn't true. She knew exactly where she was, and had a vague impression of the objects surrounding her. But she couldn't see anything. She was in total darkness. And so her brain, somehow defective despite being powered by the highest level of technology in existence, told her that she was in an empty void.</p><p>The fact that she didn't have much in the way of physical sensations wasn't exactly helping, either. All she could hear was some kind of low hum, and when she breathed in, all she could smell was that rotting stench, infinitely more overwhelming now that she was locked in and alone in the dark. Lyra coughed, a habitual approximation of a gag even though her actual gag reflex didn't function. That smell... she thought she knew what it was now. It was something bad. Something like--</p><p>
  <em>--The world blew by in a blurry spiral outside the car window and it wasn't quite the same as having her life flash before her eyes but somehow it conveyed the same information. She didn't remember screaming. She must have. Wasted as she was, she must have screamed. Must have wished desperately not to die. Not that it made any difference either way because the spiralling stopped as soon as it started and when it stopped she only got a moment to taste her own blood before.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It stopped.</em>
</p><p>The memory erupted in her mind so violently she thought for a moment that her brain was physically hemorrhaging. Like maybe all that fancy circuitry keeping her going had finally crapped out and now she was going back in the ground. <em>Halfway there already,</em> she thought, and then barked out a laugh that came out sounding more like the cry of a wounded animal.</p><p>Except, no, not really. Even as she clutched at her head, hands shaking, the better part of her knew that there was a door just a few feet in front of her leading to the arcade proper. And even if she couldn't get that door open, there was a lightswitch on the wall next to it. This was stupid, she realized; there was no need to be having this goddamned mental breakdown. Coming to this realization did nothing to ease the frantic suffocating feeling inside her. Especially stupid, that she felt like she was suffocating. That literally wasn't physically possible for her. Knowing this about her physiology did even less to help ease her panic, but still.</p><p>Lyra took a deep breath even though she didn't need to. Her mouth drank in what she now recognized as the scent of death, and she could have sworn that her bones rattled in reaction.</p><p>"Okay, so," she whispered. "Maybe... this was a bad idea."</p><p>But that didn't mean she was going to lay down and wait for death to take her. (<em>Not like some people I know, </em>she thought, lips twisting into a wry smile even though she didn't find anything about it funny at all.) She got to her feet, held her arms out in front of her, and took a step forward. Then another. Another.</p><p>And then, just like that, her outstretched fingers brushed against something. A small object protruding from the wall--the lightswitch! A giddy laugh spilled from Lyra's lips. She could have collapsed from relief right then and there. Instead she flicked the switch on, and a dim lightbulb flickered to life above her, casting the room in a dull yellow light.</p><p>"Well, what do you know," she muttered, a grin plastered to her face even as she internally cringed at her own overreaction. "Guess I was never in any danger at all."</p><p>With the light on, she could now get a slightly better look at the room's contents. The shelves, it turned out, were mostly filled with mechanical parts, tools, holiday decorations and banners and signs, cheap rubbery plastic toys... etc. Everything was dusty, and she was pretty sure she spotted a few cobwebs here and there; she shuddered at the thought of the number of spiders that so many webs entailed, although luckily she didn't spot any crawling around at the moment. Other than that, she didn't see anything particularly disturbing... no clues as to the source of the smell, other than a dubious stain on the floor.</p><p>And no sign of Tucker's winter coat. She'd probably have to check in the arcade proper for it--more sneaking around. Lyra sighed, only to be startled to see her breath puff up in front of her. She shivered on instinct at the realization that it was cold in the backroom, even though obviously it had been cold the whole time and her nerve endings just didn't process it.</p><p>Another glance around quickly revealed the source of the low temperature, as well as the hum she'd heard earlier: a freezer in the corner. Lyra's brow furrowed. Why would there need to be a freezer in the storage room for an arcade?</p><p>Her curiosity piqued, she tiptoed over to the freezer and stared down at it. For reasons she didn't fully understand, its placement gave her a bad vibe. She couldn't describe how, exactly, but looking at that freezer--approaching it--she felt like she was in danger. Even so, she placed her hands on the lid and pried it open.</p><p>The freezer opened more easily than she anticipated. It was no different than the one in her basement at home, albeit slightly bigger. She wasn't sure what she expected to find inside. Beer cans or something, probably? Or whatever else an average arcade owner would want to keep both refrigerated, and out of sight of the kids who would visit the arcade.</p><p>She did <em>not</em> expect to be hit with an exponentially more powerful wave of the smell that permeated the room. Lyra recoiled, coughing.</p><p>"Geez, what the hell is the old man keeping in this...?"</p><p>She trailed off, the words dying on her tongue as she leaned in to see the freezer's contents. It took her mind a moment to process what she was seeing. When she did, she psychosomatically felt her stomach hitch; if not for her condition, she would have thrown up.</p><p>"Well," she spoke in a stunned whisper, "shit."</p><hr/><p>Tucker was still sitting on the couch staring blankly at the wall when there was a knock on his door. He didn't know how many minutes had passed this time; his mind was far too blank to count seconds. Well, blank wasn't quite the right word. His mind was many things, but never blank. It was more like a blizzard of half-formed thoughts and feelings, blending together to block out anything rational or comprehensible. In his lap, his hands unconsciously twisted as though locked together in a death match.</p><p>The knock was less intrusive than the ring of his phone, but also less familiar. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had knocked on his door. Upon hearing the series of raps echo in his ears, he straightened up, alert and momentarily confused; the sound was so foreign that he didn't even know what it was at first. Then the sound repeated with increased intensity, and he heard Lyra's muffled voice shout for him to open up, and he jumped off the couch and ran over to open the door for her.</p><p>"Lyra! Apologies for the delayed reaction on my end, but, er, certain developments have transpired that rendered me quite distracted, and--"</p><p>He broke off, mouth quirking into a frown as he took in his cousin's slightly disheveled appearance. Her hair, usually gelled and/or pinned so that it obscured nearly half her face, was ragged and pushed back, revealing what looked like some sort of facial tattoo. Her body trembled slightly as she stood in his doorway, suggesting that she was exhausted or exhilarated or both. Somehow, though, there still wasn't a single drop of sweat visible anywhere on her. What currently took precedence over this discrepancy in Tucker's mind, though, was that...</p><p>"You don't have my clothes," he observed, his frown deepening. "You said you were coming to bring them over. What happened?"</p><p>"Huh?" Confusion clouded Lyra's gaze for a moment. Then she frowned and shook her head, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, no, they're in the car, don't worry. But, listen--" She grabbed his arm, which was only half as startling as the accompanying steep increase in her voice's intensity. "You've gotta come with me to the arcade right now. There's something you need to see."</p><p>"The arcade?" he echoed, staring back at his cousin incredulously. "Wha... why?"</p><p>"There's no time to explain." She tugged at his arm, urgency and something like pleading etched across her features. Her grip felt like that of a cold steel claw. "Come on."</p><p>Tucker stood his ground, not letting his feet budge an inch, as his initial surprise at his cousin's strange behavior quickly gave way to a rising wave of repulsion. His jaw clenched, lips pressing together into a firm line. How could she ask something like that of him and not even explain herself?</p><p>"No," he said, quietly at first. Then, louder, when Lyra narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth as though to argue: "No! I can't--I <em>won't</em> go back to the arcade without good reason! You... I-I <em>told</em> you everything that happened there, Lyra." His voice wavered, and as it did, Lyra's expression softened. At that, Tucker clenched his hands into fists. <em>Damn it all. </em>"If I go back there again, I... I can't. I can't!"</p><p>Lyra took a step back, releasing her hold on his arm. "Tucker, I get it, it's just..." She pursed her lips, giving him that pleading look again. "You're really gonna want to see this."</p><p>"Actually, dear cousin, you know what I'd like to see?" He didn't mean to snap at her. When Lyra flinched, guilt twinged in his gut. Still, he was too tired and his head hurt too much for him to back down now. "I'd like my clothes back in my possession. But it doesn't appear that you have any intention of actually returning them as you said you would. So, with that in mind, what I'd really like to see is you leaving my apartment!"</p><p>Before Lyra could object, he slammed the door shut. He could hear her shouting at him as he locked the door and turned away, but he willfully ignored what she was yelling. He'd heard and said enough today. All he wanted to do was bury his face in a pillow and scream and/or cry until he ideally achieved some semblance of catharsis. He couldn't very well do that with his cousin nagging at him to go with her and revisit the site of his trauma, now, could he?</p><p>He didn't know what Lyra's intentions were, but there was one thing Tucker was quite certain of: there was nothing at that old arcade that he would have wanted to see. Not anymore. And there never would be again.</p><hr/><p>Upon returning home, Lyra kicked the door shut behind her and then slumped against the door with a weary groan. Every inch of her felt absolutely drained on a physical, emotional, and spiritual level; all she wanted to do was sink to the floor and pass out right then and there. She couldn't do that, though. Not just yet.</p><p>The grocery bags weighed heavy on her arms. It felt like the weight of their contents was going to drag her down to hell. Every minuscule motion she made sent the bag's contents shifting, clinking together and producing a sort of soft squelching noise that made her cringe every time. If she were a living human, she absolutely would have barfed her guts out several times over by now. As it was, she still <em>felt</em> like she was going to throw up even though, as far as she knew, it wasn't possible for her to do so. And that was with her making a conscious effort not to breathe the whole drive home, so she wouldn't have to take in any more of that goddamn smell.</p><p>God. What the hell was she doing?</p><p>That was the thought that had been playing in her mind like a broken record the whole time she was driving from the old arcade back to her place. That, and variations on it, including <em>I'm dead meat if the old man finds out about this. </em>Which was a ridiculous anxiety for her of all people to have, really.</p><p>Somehow, none of her disgust or dread or severe awareness that she was doing something extremely fucked up had been enough to convince her to turn the car around and return what she had taken. So, now, here she was. Home again, with some fun new acquisitions to be stored in her freezer.</p><p>"Well," she announced loudly to nobody in particular, "Guess I'm in too deep to back out now."</p><p>With a grunt of effort, Lyra got back on her feet and made her way downstairs. As she made her way across the basement, Jaws came scampering down the stairs after her, mewing incessantly. Looking down at the kitten trotting around her heels, Lyra was about to tell him that it wasn't his supper time yet until she realized that it actually was.</p><p>"Alright, hold on," she sighed, bending down in front of the freezer to set the grocery bags on the floor as gently as possible. "I'll feed you in a minute. First I've gotta put this stuff away."</p><p>Jaws sniffed curiously at the bags, his little kitten tail sticking up. After a moment's hesitation, he stuck his head into the nearest bag.</p><p>"Ah, uh, uh." Lyra gently swatted her hand at the kitten, shooing him away. "No. Keep out."</p><p>She pushed the freezer door open and got to work. Luckily there wasn't much in there to begin with, so she didn't need to rearrange anything to make room. That level of ordeal just might have been what it took to make her go back to the arcade and put the bag's contents back where she found them. Probably not, but still. On the other hand, it would have been nice to have an excuse to delay this as much as possible.</p><p>But no such excuse presented itself to her, and so she squared her shoulders, instinctively took a deep breath only to immediately regret it, and got to work transferring her new acquisitions into the freezer.</p><p>She tried not to look too hard at the jars and what was inside them as she put them away. At the same time, she couldn't <em>not </em>look at them. Not because she was weirdly drawn to them--she seriously wasn't that kind of person--but just, on a practical level, she had to check them over to make sure that none of the jars were cracked and that none of their contents were damaged. Not that she'd necessarily be able to tell if they were damaged in some way. It's not like she was an organ scientist.</p><p>Fortunately, everything seemed fine. Well, <em>fortunately</em> and <em>fine</em> were very much relative terms. Nothing about this whole situation was even remotely fine. But all the jars and all the stuff inside them were accounted for, and as far as she could tell, everything was intact. Brain, lungs, heart, stomach and intestines, teeth, various clumps of matter she couldn't identify... it was all there. Nothing broken from being jostled too hard, or dropped along the way, or snatched up by the cat.</p><p>When everything was put away, Lyra let herself drop to the floor in sync with the freezer door falling shut. She parted her lips to let out a heavy sigh, but since she hadn't been breathing for the past few minutes, no sound escaped from her except a low wheeze. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the freezer, feeling the low rumble of its inner machinations against the back of her cranium.</p><p>"Christ," she groaned. "What the fuck am I doing?"</p><p>The only answer she got was Jaws' impertinent mew as he headbutted her leg. Lyra dutifully reached over to scratch him between the ears; he nipped at her fingers. Before he could bite too hard, Lyra retracted her hand. Her agent sure wouldn't be happy if she got her fingers bitten off by a kitten. They could be reattached, sure--that was nothing compared to the kind of stuff her agent's company was capable of--but still. It'd be embarrassing.</p><p>"Say, maybe that's the problem," she muttered. "Maybe my agent pulled my stitches too tight and it's cutting off the circulation to my brain."</p><p>Jaws meowed at her again, his bright blue stare carrying an unmistakable air of judgement.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, I know. Not how my physiology works," she sighed. "Just trying to lighten the mood."</p><p>Another meow, accompanied by another headbutt, a little more forceful this time. Lyra got the picture. With a resigned shake of her head, she scooped the kitten up in her arms and got to her feet.</p><p>"Alright, let's get ya fed."</p><p>She turned the basement light off as she went upstairs, leaving the freezer and its stolen contents behind her in the dark. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Let's just see any old thing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heads up: there's a short but kinda intense nightmare sequence at the start of the second scene in this one. You'll know it when you see it. Other than that, though, this is mostly a lighter and more fun chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Most of the time, when people said they had no food in the house, it was an exaggeration. They would have <em>something,</em> even if it wasn't much. Some condiments in the fridge. A jar of peanut butter in the cupboard--perhaps a package of saltine crackers too, if they were lucky. A few slices of bread. Something.</p><p>Tucker stood in front of the open fridge and stared, as though doing so would make something suddenly manifest within it. He could only stare at the empty white space for so long before his eyes glazed over. When that happened, he sighed, shook his head, and closed the fridge.</p><p>Three weeks. That was how long it had been since his spat with Lyra. It wasn't as if they hadn't made amends during that time; they weren't children, after all. She was mature enough to drop his accidentally stolen clothes off outside his door the following day, with a note attached explaining the situation which he had proceeded to tape to the fridge door. He, in turn, was mature enough to send her an email (although he had to do some googling to find her address, it was easy enough for someone with his level of research expertise to track down) in which he apologized for his behaviour and expressed a desire to keep in touch with her. She had emailed him back, echoing the same sentiments.</p><p>They had not actually talked to each other since then. Ah, well. It wasn't as if they had much to say to each other.</p><p>Still, closing the fridge door and seeing Lyra's little pink post-it note tucked amidst the clutter of magazine cut-outs and newspaper clippings he had pinned up there over the years, he was hit with a faint twinge of remorse. Or perhaps that was just hunger pangs. Either way, Tucker was well aware that his current situation had not improved much over the course of the past month. At least now, being out of a job gave him an excuse for laying despondently on the couch all day. <em>Ah, the joys of unemployment.</em></p><p>(A month... it was strange to think it had already been that long. Sometimes Tucker still caught himself thinking, <em>oh, maybe I'll drop by the arcade today--it's been a long time since I've paid him a visit... </em>only to remember, with a new twist of pain each time as fresh as the last, the reason it had been so long since he last saw his lover. He wondered if these occasional bouts of forgetfulness would ever cease. He felt like an old widow waiting for his husband who died in the war to come home. Still, he continued living, and as mental health went, that was better than nothing.)</p><p>With cautious fingers, he reached out and peeled the post-it note off the fridge door. For about the dozenth time that week, he read over his cousin's messy attempt at cursive handwriting, the ink now smudged in several places making it hard to read. And to think that so many fans out there were clamoring for her autograph. As he scanned the now-familiar words, the corner of his lips twitched into something close to a smile.</p><p>
  <em>Hey, Tucker. Sorry about yesterday. I should've explained myself. Guess I forgot life isn't like a movie, where you can just say "you're gonna want to see this" and then it jump cuts to you showing them the thing. Anyway, you were right. What I found at the arcade wasn't something you would have wanted to see. I have no idea why I ever thought you'd want to see it. The more I think about it, the stupider I feel.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anyway, I'm sorry. Here's your clothes back. Went looking for your winter coat but couldn't find it. Buy a new one, would you? Can't stay holed up in your apartment all winter long. Ok, bye.</em>
</p><p>She never had explained what it was that she had found at the arcade, but the mention of his winter coat had quickly made him realize what she'd been doing there in the first place. The thought of his cousin going to the effort of breaking into the arcade (because there was no way it had reopened for business just yet) for the sake of retrieving his lost coat filled him with an overwhelming sense of warmth, the magnitude of which nearly made him tear up. It was that realization of Lyra's original intentions, really even more so than her apology, that had driven him to email her. Even if they never spoke to each other again, Tucker would know that she still cared, and that was more than enough for him.</p><p>Now, though, his concern was not with abstract things like regret or relief or gratitude, but rather with the tangible lack of food in the house. Tucker winced as his stomach grumbled again, painfully. He had managed to regain some will to live over the past few weeks, at least; the prospect of slowly starving to death was mildly less appealing than that of bundling up and taking a trip to the grocery store.</p><p>With a weary sigh, he set about getting ready to go. Given his current financial situation (not actively in crisis just yet, but certainly not great) he hadn't done as Lyra suggested and bought a new winter coat; instead, he made do with wearing a long-sleeved button-up shirt under a sweater vest, with a suit jacket overtop. The sweater vest was bulky enough that it rendered the jacket unable to properly close at the front, but he took that as a good sign, because it meant the former clothing item would keep him well-insulated. He grabbed his purse with his wallet inside, wrapped his scarf around his neck, put his shoes on, and headed out.</p><p>Despite his best efforts at bundling up, the cold mid-winter temperature bit at him hard enough to make him wince the moment he stepped outside. Were it not for the very real need to buy groceries, he'd have half a mind to just turn around and go back inside. Instead, he adjusted his scarf so that it covered as much of his face as possible (still not enough to entirely protect him from the sting of the cold, but with his mouth and ears covered it was better), stuck his hands in his pockets (no gloves, which was another thing Lyra would probably nag him about if she knew), and set off, trudging down the snowy sidewalks at the fastest pace he could.</p><p>Fortunately, the nearest grocery store was only a few blocks away from the apartment complex. He made it there in such good time that, by the time the store's automatic sliding doors opened for him with their familiar whoosh, he could still feel his extremities. Letting out a sigh of relief at the store's temperature-controlled warmth, Tucker tugged his scarf loose and reached up to unbutton his jacket, only to remember that the buttons weren't done up in the first place. His glasses were so fogged up that he couldn't see a thing, but being as familiar with the building's layout as he was, that was no trouble. He could simply let his feet guide him through force of habit.</p><p>That was what he thought, anyway. As it was, he had barely taken two steps into the produce section when he bumped into someone. Tucker stumbled back, letting out a startled "oof!"</p><p>"Hey!" the person he'd walked into exclaimed.</p><p>Tensing up in anticipation of a harsh berating, Tucker took a step back. Through his fogged lenses, he could just make out the blurry shape of the person turning around to stare down at him. A nervous apology was on the tip of his tongue when the other shopper caught him completely by surprise.</p><p>"Heyyy, you're Lyra's little cousin, aren't you?" The voice was vaguely familiar, and amazingly, sounded pleased to see him rather than annoyed. "That's crazy. What are you doing here, man?"</p><p>Tucker took off his glasses and rubbed them on his sleeve, blinking in confusion. Upon putting the de-fogged glasses back on, the figure before him sharpened into focus, and he recognized Diablo Sundberg, his cousin's bandmate.</p><p>"Oh... er, well, I'm just here to buy groceries," Tucker said. "And you?"</p><p>"Also buying groceries. That's the only reason anyone goes to a grocery store, huh? So I guess asking what you're doing here was a dumb question."</p><p>Diablo shrugged and cocked an eyebrow as he spoke, as though inviting Tucker to poke fun at him. Tucker didn't know this man well enough to feel comfortable playfully mocking him, so he stayed quiet and waited to see if Diablo had anything more substantial to say for himself. They stared at each other for a moment; Tucker's skin prickled with awareness of the increasing awkwardness of the situation. He was about to walk away when Diablo clapped him on the shoulder without warning.</p><p>"Hey, so, me and Neil are having a boys' weekend over at my place," he said. "You wanna come?"</p><p>"...What?"</p><p>"Yeah, it's not like a big thing or anything, we're just gonna hang out," he went on, apparently having misinterpreted the source of Tucker's confusion. "I mean, don't get me wrong, we love Lyra--she's like a big sister to all of us--but she can be a little cagey about stuff sometimes. So we figured we could just get together and hang out on our own for a bit."</p><p>"Hmm." Tucker paused, thinking back to his meeting with Lyra's colleagues. His memory of the night was pretty blurry, but he was fairly certain... "Don't you have a fourth band member--a young lady about your age? Why not invite her to spend time with you?"</p><p>At that, he thought he saw Diablo's cheeks grow a shade darker. Before he could be sure, though, Diablo coughed and turned his head away, covering his face with his hand.</p><p>"Uh. Yeah. Cindy is... she's great." All of a sudden his voice came out sounding almost choked, like his throat was tight. Tucker leaned forward in puzzlement, brows knitting together. "Luh... like her too. But. Y'know. Wanted to have a boys' weekend."</p><p>Tucker hummed thoughtfully under his breath, crossing his arms. Not that he was particularly invested in the lives of his cousin's bandmates, but it seemed as though Diablo was hiding something. (Not to mention the remark about Lyra being cagey about things sometimes... now that was something Tucker could attest to. In fact, although he understood why his cousin would act that way around him, the revelation that she acted the same way around her colleagues was surprising. Perhaps there was a mystery on hand.)</p><p>"Well, I'll consider your offer," he decided. "Perhaps we should exchange phone numbers so we can follow up."</p><p>"Oh, yeah," Diablo agreed. "Good idea."</p><p>They exchanged numbers and parted with the tentative agreement that Tucker would attend this so-called boys' weekend. Although he would be ashamed to admit it, his heart was pounding like the paws of a pursued jackrabbit as he watched Diablo stroll away, whistling a tune to himself--and not because he felt any sort of infatuation toward the man, who was not remotely his type. Rather, the simple prospect of attending a social gathering was overwhelming, especially when coming off the heels of a two-week stretch of practically no in-person social interaction. What exactly did a boys' weekend entail, anyway? Would there be drinking? Would there be sports? God, he hoped there wouldn't be sports, or he would certainly have to decline.</p><p>Tucker got so caught up in his anxiety over the thought of socializing with people he barely knew that, as he had so many times over the course of the past month, he let the question of Lyra's apparent strange behavior slip his mind. By the time he left the grocery store with a freshly acquired microwaveable dinner and some packets of instant ramen, his cousin was the last thing on his mind. No, it was her bandmates who he needed to worry about now.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>The arcade doors swung open and the sky went dark. The old man who had been running the place for thirty, almost forty years now was a skeleton emerging from his desiccated tomb. Withered, shrunken lips parted, revealing a row of rotting teeth. From between them emitted a bone-chilling howl. Lyra's heart thudded at his approach.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her heart? Thudding? Beating?!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes. Yes, there it was, like always. In her chest, beating. Moving. Blood pumping. She could feel it inside her, hear it echo in her ears. All that wet tissue, squirming around inside her. That was what she was: a living, breathing thing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not for long.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mr. Arkwright reached out a decaying hand. Lyra couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't even scream as the arcade owner's chipped, yellowed nails pierced through her flesh and bone; as hands as cold as grave dirt grabbed hold of her organs and ripped them out of her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His ghastly scowl became a grin as he clutched her insides in his hands. Lyra gasped for breath, but she couldn't. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything. Her body went cold and stagnant and dry. Freeze-dried. Then, with a diabolical laugh, Mr. Arkwright clenched his hands into fists, and her organs were squashed into a burst of bloody pulp, unsalvageable.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lyra stumbled backward in shock, suddenly able to move again--just enough to seal her fate. Freezer doors swung shut in front of her, sealing her in cold darkness. In a box, almost like the arcade machine her cousin had fallen for. But not like that at all. More like a car, tipping and spinning out of control and crashing and she couldn't get out, couldn't move, couldn't escape--</em>
</p><p>Lyra jerked awake with a gasp. Instinctively, her hand flew up to press against her chest. No heartbeat. Of course she had no heartbeat. But her heart was still in there somewhere, nestled uselessly amidst a tangle of stagnant veins and arteries... presumably. She figured she'd be able to tell if it or any of her other organs were gone, if only because the missing weight would make her feel noticeably lighter.</p><p>"Just a stupid dream," she said a little more loudly than necessarily.</p><p>From his position at the foot of her bed, Jaws perked his head up with a questioning <em>mrrt? </em>at the sound of her voice. Lyra's tension immediately eased upon being reminded of her kitten's presence. Smiling, she patted her knee to beckon him, and he trotted obediently over, plopping himself down in her lap and purring. Lyra leaned back against the bedframe with a sigh, letting her eyes fall shut as she combed her fingers through her cat's silky off-white fur.</p><p>For a while she drifted in a listless state somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. It was only once she was beginning to properly drift off that her alarm went off. Lyra winced at the invasive beeping. As she reached over to turn it off, she let out a sound that was half groan and half yawn. Right on cue, Jaws hopped off the bed and began meowing in demand of breakfast.</p><p>"Man, my subconscious is a dumbass, huh?" she addressed her kitten as she doled out kibble into his dish. "I mean, for one thing, Mr. Arkwright would be... what, sixty-five? Hardly a rotting corpse. And for another thing, even if he notices the stuff missing from his freezer, it's not like he'll have any way of knowing who took it."</p><p>Jaws looked up at her and meowed as if voicing agreement. Lyra chuckled and gave him a pat on the head.</p><p>"Yeah, there's a smart boy. Glad to see someone's in my corner."</p><p>She proceeded with her morning routine as usual, doing her best to just forget about the nightmare. It wasn't her first time having a dream like that, especially in the past little while, and it probably wouldn't be the last, either. All she could do was move on without letting it bother her too much.</p><p>After showering--as quickly as possible, with cool water and scented soap--and drying herself off, she picked out a casual outfit, since it was Friday: a Dave Matthews Band t-shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans. Keeping the casual vibe going, she figured her bandmates wouldn't expect her to wear makeup today, so she went easy on the concealer: just enough to cover up her stitches, and no makeup at all other than that. From there, she combed her undercut into a satisfactory position and pinned it in place--no gel today. As much of a departure as it was from her usual style, it was kind of fun to go for the natural look every now and then. She found herself humming a little tune to herself as she combed her hair, her troubling dream already all but forgotten.</p><p>Finally, she slipped on her lined faux-leather jacket and lace-up boots, slung her backpack over one shoulder like a high schooler trying to look cool, and headed out the door, blowing Jaws a kiss goodbye even as he pushed his head against the door trying to slip out after her. On the car ride to the studio, she sang along with the radio, and got so caught up in the moment that she almost rolled down her window before catching herself and realizing that would be a weird thing to do in the middle of winter. The sun was shining in that too-bright way it did during winter, glinting harshly off the snow. She took a pair of sunglasses out of her glove compartment and slipped them on.</p><p>Neil and Cindy were already at the studio when she got there, taking turns playing little melodies on the piano. They glanced up and waved at Lyra as she walked in, but quickly went back to being engrossed with their practice. Lyra smiled, satisfied with her bandmates' dedication. She pulled up a chair for herself and shrugged off her backpack, slinging its straps over the back of the chair.</p><p>"Okay, so, we're going to do a few minutes of warm-ups, and then we're gonna try recording," she said. She absentmindedly grabbed a pair of drumsticks off the ground and started gesturing with them, pointing them at her bandmates. "Think you're ready?"</p><p>"As I'll ever be," Neil replied, flashing her a lopsided smile. He tossed his magic eight ball back and forth between his hands like an eager sports player as he spoke. "And you?"</p><p>"Hell yeah, I'm ready to go!"</p><p>No sooner had Lyra made her automatic confident declaration than she realized who Neil's question had actually been directed at. Cindy brushed her bangs out of her eyes and blinked sheepishly up at her childhood friend, biting her lip.</p><p>"Um, well, I'll do my best as always," she said. "There's a couple of parts I'm still a little nervous about, but I'll try..."</p><p>"Hey, you'll do fine," Lyra assured her, giving her a clap on the shoulder. "You always do."</p><p>Just then, the sound of a motorcycle engine from outside signaled the arrival of their fourth member. Lyra raised her hand to greet Diablo as he strolled in; he returned her wave with a salute, and then a finger-gun at Neil and Cindy, the latter of whom blushed and ducked to hide her face.</p><p>"So, are we still on for hanging out tomorrow?" Neil asked as Diablo wandered over and pulled up a chair between Lyra and the piano.</p><p>"Yeah, of course. Oh, and I hope you don't mind," Diablo added, "But I ran into Lyra's cousin at the grocery store the other day and I invited him to come too. Is that okay?"</p><p>"Huh?!" Lyra and Neil spoke with equal incredulity almost exactly in unison. A moment later, Neil nudged Lyra with his elbow and muttered "Jinx."</p><p>"You saw Tucker? At the grocery store?" Lyra leaned toward her bandmate, brow furrowing. "You don't mean to tell me you live in the same neighbourhood..."</p><p>Diablo shrugged. "I guess we do. Small world, huh?"</p><p>"...Well, uh, if you've already invited him then of course he can come," Neil said, the confusion clouding his eyes dissipating and giving way to his usual chipperness. "I like Tucker, from what little I've seen of him so far. Is that okay with you, Lyra?" he added, craning his neck past Diablo to glance in her direction.</p><p>"Um..." Lyra blinked, nearly as bewildered by the question as she was by the revelation of her bandmate's encounter with her cousin. "What are you asking me for? I'm not his babysitter."</p><p><em>We haven't even talked in a couple of weeks, </em>she considered adding but decided to keep to herself. She didn't want her bandmates to pester her about keeping in touch. They were on good terms now thanks to her post-it note and their subsequent email exchange. No need to have more conversations with him than was necessary.</p><p>"I think she means it's okay," Cindy put in after Neil and Diablo continued staring at Lyra expectantly for a moment. "Right?"</p><p>"Yeah, sure," Lyra answered, sensing that giving them a definitive yes was the only way to get them off her case. "Hope you guys have fun. And oh, say," she added with a snap of her fingers as a new idea suddenly popped into her mind, "While you guys are hanging out, do you think you could look over my drafts for the new set of songs and revise them a bit?"</p><p>"Oh, yeah, no problem."</p><p>"Great!" She reached into her bag and took out the messy stack of papers within. "Hope you can read my handwriting. And remember, guys, don't do anything I wouldn't do."</p><p>(She was mostly joking there, on both accounts. For one thing, she knew full well her bandmates could read her handwriting, as messy as it occasionally got when she was jotting down lyrics and time signatures. And for another thing, recent events suggested that her actions weren't always what she'd want her bandmates--or anyone, for that matter--to model their own behavior after. Not that she thought her bandmates were likely to choose breaking and entering the old arcade as one of their weekend activities.)</p><hr/><p>Tucker wasn't sure whether this was better or worse than what he'd expected. It was certainly less overwhelming than his worst fears--no raucous party music, or drinking games, or gambling, or pornography. Instead, he found himself in a dimly lit yet overall comfortable basement entertainment room, situated on the edge of a living room sofa with a bowl of corn chips balanced precariously on his lap, leaning over to put as much distance as he could between himself and the other men sharing the couch with him, but unable to escape being constantly jostled by their movements as they laughed and shoved each other. He grit his teeth as Diablo's shoulder suddenly collided against his, sending a couple of chips flying out of the bowl. Onscreen, a dinosaur stomped around and roared.</p><p>"Man, these effects really hold up, don't they?" Diablo elbowed Tucker in the ribs. Tucker narrowed his eyes, an indignant remark forming on the tip of his tongue, but before he could fire it off Diablo continued: "Looks like someone's pretty taken in."</p><p>He nodded toward Neil, who was leaning forward with his jaw slack, clutching the tv remote with white knuckles. The light from the tv screen reflected off his glasses; behind them, his eyes were wide with awe. It was the look you would expect to see from someone watching a shocking news report, not a film that was multiple decades old at this point. Despite himself, Tucker had to suppress a bemused snort.</p><p>"In all fairness to Neil," he said, "I have heard rumours that similar events to the ones in the film really have occurred. There's a television show host who claims to have seen it... back when I wrote for <em>UFOs Monthly </em>I once hoped to interview him, but nobody was ever able to get ahold of him."</p><p>Diablo cocked an eyebrow. "Huh. Well, I'm sure you remember Neil's infamous dinosaur story... maybe you could interview him instead."</p><p>"I'm afraid not," Tucker sighed. "On both accounts. For one thing, alas, I no longer work for <em>UFOs Monthly. </em>For another, I'm afraid I don't recall hearing any..." He paused, brows pinching together as he tried to summon the blurry memories of his first meeting with the band. "...Dinosaur stories?... from Neil."</p><p>"Damn, dude, you must've gotten pretty drunk that night to have forgotten that!"</p><p>Diablo reached over and jostled Neil, who jumped as though snapping out of a trance. He turned to face Diablo and Tucker; as he did so, his glasses caught the tv screen light at such an angle that his eyes were completely obscured. It would have been a rather intimidating effect, were it not for his slightly askew fedora and wide, vaguely childish grin.</p><p>"What is it?"</p><p>"Tucker here needs a refresher on your backstory," Diablo said. Without warning, he slung an arm around Tucker's shoulders and patted him heartily on the chest; Tucker blinked, too startled to object. "Care to fill him in?"</p><p>"Oh! Yeah, uh, sure." Neil put the movie on pause and set the remote down, then turned, readjusting himself into a cross-legged position facing Tucker. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, which did nothing to alleviate the anime-villain-esque lense-flash effect. "It was around six years ago now. Lyra and I had been friends for a long while already--we met in art school, you know. We were out of college by that point, and we were just kinda working temp jobs here and there... trying to figure out what we wanted to do with our lives, y'know? Well, she was, anyway. I already thought I knew what I wanted to do."</p><p>As Neil spoke, Diablo eased himself off the sofa. He grabbed the chip bowl and shook it as though to indicate he was getting up to refill it, but then he put it back down without even taking it with him as he left the room and went upstairs. Tucker raised his eyebrows at that unnecessary bit of indirect deception, but didn't bother calling him out on it. No doubt Diablo, having been a colleague of Neil's for years, had heard this story many times before.</p><p>"You see, my grandfather was a genius mechanic. I wanted to be just like him," Neil continued. "Only everything I know about him, I had to research on my own, because my family doesn't like to talk about him. I guess the government didn't like some of the stuff he built. None of it actually did anything, anyway... so, anyhow, one day I was messing around with this magic eight ball, trying to rig it up all fancy. Next thing I know, I'm in prehistoric times!"</p><p>Admittedly, given the prerequisite that this was a "dinosaur story", Tucker had kind of seen that one coming. His eyes widened nonetheless, and he leaned forward eagerly.</p><p>"I guess I accidentally built a little time machine type thing. Except it could do other stuff, too. So, these dinosaurs come up to me, and they start asking me about playing instruments... I had never really thought about doing music before. But when I picked up a keytar and started playing, I really liked it! So, we all played together, and...."</p><p>As Neil carried on recounting his tale, Tucker found himself infinitely more caught up in it than he had been with the film. Now that he thought of it, the story did give him the odd flash of deja vu here and there--yes, there were a few snippets he could definitely remember hearing before. Even then, he nodded eagerly along, hanging onto every word Neil said.</p><p>It was strange, to get so exhilarated again after going over a month without feeling half as excited by anything. This, Tucker suddenly realized in the back of his mind even as Neil's story remained at the forefront of his attention, was what he had truly been missing out on. The thrill of hearing or reading a firsthand account of a seemingly impossible event, and getting to work out the truth... that, more than anything, was always his passion. How could he have forgotten this part of himself for so long?</p><p>By the time Neil's thrilling narrative of prehistoric music-making was winding down, Tucker's face hurt from grinning so hard. A million little interjections and follow-up questions bubbled within him, ready to leap off his tongue as soon as possible; he had to bite down on his lip to keep them from spilling out preemptively and interrupting Neil. It was just then, as Neil brought his story to a close, that Diablo came back in.</p><p>"...I couldn't stop thinking about those dinosaurs and the fun we had together. So, in honour of them and of the whole experience, I decided to dedicate myself to music from that point on. And it turns out that, with minimal convincing required upfront, Lyra was cut out for music too!" Neil paused, turning at the sound of Diablo's footsteps coming down the stairway. "Oh, hey, man. Where've you been?"</p><p>"Cutting up some fruit, and picking out another movie we can watch," Diablo replied. He looked down at the glass bowl in his hands. "I've got, uh, let's see... starfruit, apples, grapes, and pears."</p><p>"Are those the fruits, or the films you've picked out?" Tucker quipped. When Neil gave him a quizzical look, he blushed and hastily clarified: "I'm joking, of course. I know those aren't film titles."</p><p>As Diablo made his way down the stairs, he tripped and nearly fell, just barely managing to catch himself on the railing. The split-second of tension was enough to send Tucker's heart rate rocketing up, and had him halfway jumping to his feet with the intent of running over to catch the bowl if it fell. Neil, however, didn't bat an eye, and Diablo himself laughed it off as though it were nothing. Not for the first time, Tucker was hit with a deep twinge of envy. What must it be like, he wondered, to live life so... whatever the opposite of high-strung was? <em>(Low strung?</em> he thought, but <em>no, that doesn't sound right.)</em></p><p>They settled on watching <em>Dawn of the Dead.</em> Diablo and Neil kept swapping jokes throughout; apparently they were quite familiar with the film already. At one point Neil got up and did a headstand for no apparent reason. That little gesture set Diablo off laughing for over a solid minute--Tucker counted, while silently waiting for him to quiet down so he could hear the dialogue in the film. At this point, envy at their lifestyle was giving way to irritation. By the time the end credits rolled, Tucker was grinding his teeth and biting his tongue to hold back a scathing retort every time his companions opened their mouths.</p><p>"Man, that was fun. I hadn't seen that one in ages," Diablo announced cheerfully as he turned the tv off.</p><p>"Oh, no?" Despite his best efforts to remain polite during this gathering, Tucker narrowed his eyes and fixed his cousin's rowdy bandmate with a withering stare. "I'd have thought you knew it inside and out, from the way you kept talking over it."</p><p>Neil chuckled lightly at that. "Yeah, well... we can never watch movies like that when Lyra is around." As soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes momentarily widened and he frowned slightly. It was a look Tucker recognized all too well: the face of realization that you may have just said something you shouldn't have.</p><p>If Neil had accidentally said something wrong, though, Diablo didn't seem to notice--that, or he was very adept at covering for his friend's mistake. "Yeah, it's weird with her... she's not really squeamish, usually, but then there's some stuff she just super doesn't vibe with." He gave a half-shrug as if to say <em>oh well.</em> "I think zombies are cool as hell, but whatever. If she's not into them, that's her loss."</p><hr/><p>Without warning, Lyra's muscles spasmed, sending a sharp exhalation through her nostrils. She was so startled by the unexpected occurence that it took her a moment to register it as a sneeze, or the closest approximation to one that her body could offer.</p><p>"Geez, looks like I've gotta get myself checked out," she muttered. "Or maybe someone's just talking about me behind my back..."</p><p>She was distracted from these thoughts by her phone buzzing in her pocket. She put the tv show she was watching on pause and sat up to see who was calling her.</p><p>(For some reason, the first thought that popped into her head was that it was Tucker asking to be picked up early from his get-together with the boys. That was stupid, of course, for a large number of reasons. Her second thought, even more irrational, was that it was the arcade owner demanding where the organs in his storage freezer had gone. <em>Obviously</em> it wasn't either of those people. She seriously didn't know why her brain acted the way it did sometimes.)</p><p>"Hello?"</p><p>"Um, hi, Lyra." It was Cindy, her already soft voice even quieter than usual; Lyra had to turn up the in-call volume to hear her better. "You, um... you remember a while back when I tried writing a song?"</p><p>"Oh, yeah, of course!" Lyra set the tv remote down on the coffee table and straightened into a cross-legged position, at attention. "Why, did you tweak your lyrics a bit? I still think the melody you came up with is great, so it'd be awesome if--"</p><p>"No, that's not... ah..." Cindy hesitated. From the slightly sharp cadence of her breaths, Lyra could picture her chewing her lip, eyes darting back and forth anxiously. She wondered idly why she ended up associating with so many tightly-wound balls of nervous energy. "I was maybe going to rewrite it a little, but then... I can't find it."</p><p>Lyra blinked, not understanding what her bandmate was saying. "Can't find what, the right vibe? I can help with that, no problem."</p><p>"N-no, the paper I wrote the lyrics down on," Cindy finally managed. Her voice was pitched so high with urgency that Lyra twitched, struck with the urge to drive to her house right then and there to comfort her. "It's gone. I can't find it anywhere."</p><p>"Really? Aw, geez. Have you looked--"</p><p>Lyra's words died on her tongue as the realization struck her. <em>Shit.</em> The paper with Cindy's lyrics... she'd folded them up and put them in the glovebox of her car while driving Cindy home that day. But had Cindy taken them with her when Lyra dropped her off at home? Lyra racked her brain, the urgency that was in her bandmate's voice a moment ago bleeding into her.</p><p>No. Cindy hadn't taken her lyrics that day. And Lyra never got around to giving the paper back. And then, a few days ago, she decided to clear out some of the clutter in her car... like, for instance, getting rid of some of the miscellaneous papers in her glove box. <em>And then where'd they end up? Shredding?</em> Lyra's face contorted in concentration as she tried to remember all the thoughtless little actions she'd taken. <em>No, not shredding,</em> she remembered. <em>I left them sitting on the kitchen table, where I put all the sheet music and potential lyrics for our new songs, and then I put all those papers in...</em></p><p>"Oh, god fucking damn it!" she exclaimed, slamming her fist against the back of the couch (she would have slammed it against her head, but doing that ran the risk of swinging too hard and shattering her own skull). "My fucking backpack!"</p><p>"...Your backpack?" Cindy echoed, audibly startled.</p><p>"Yeah, my backpack," Lyra confirmed. Gritting her teeth to muffle a groan, she grabbed a clump of her hair and yanked on it in self-directed frustration. "And then I took all those papers <em>out</em> of my backpack when I brought it to work the other day, and..."</p><p>On the other end of the line, Cindy suddenly went completely silent. Lyra guessed from the reaction that her bandmate had just come to the realization herself, but just to be clear that they were on the same page, she concluded with a weary sigh:</p><p>"...And lent them to the guys so they could revise our new songs."</p><p>Cindy was quiet for a moment that felt a lot longer than it was. Lyra fidgeted, an increasingly strong prickle of discomfort worming through her skin. It kind of felt like she should apologize--scratch that, she <em>knew</em> she should apologize--but her bandmate's delayed reaction was worrying. She knew how sensitive Cindy could get; what if saying sorry would only set her off worse?</p><p>When Cindy spoke up again, her voice was barely audible; Lyra had to press her ear directly against the phone to hear her. What she made out was a very feeble mutter of "fuck." The word in and of itself made Lyra's eyebrows shoot up; she could hardly remember the last time she heard Cindy curse. More worrying, though, was the waver in her small voice, like she was on the verge of tears.</p><p>"Cindy, listen, it's not that big a deal," Lyra blurted. She gripped a couch cushion as she spoke, as though it were her bandmate's shoulder and she could transfer the touch through the phone line to comfort her. "I mean, you've known Neil forever. If he recognizes your handwriting, he's not gonna tell Diablo or Tucker. And I don't think any of those guys would make fun of your lyrics anyway, knowing it was you."</p><p>"But... your cousin... he's good at figuring things out, isn't he?"</p><p>Lyra's brow furrowed at that. "Huh? Uh, I don't... what are you afraid of him figuring out?"</p><p>"You've gotta drive me there, Lyra." Now the urgency was back in Cindy's voice, stronger than ever before. It elicited a painful tugging sensation inside Lyra, which most people would rhetorically attribute to their heart. "I can't--I can't let him figure it out. I can't let Diablo know!"</p><p>"Diablo? Why does it matter what he...?"</p><p>But before Lyra could even finish asking, Cindy had already ended the call. Lyra was left staring at her phone, equal parts mortified at her own mistake and bewildered by her bandmate's overreaction. Sure, Cindy was a pretty emotional person sometimes--especially where music was concerned, it seemed--but it seriously shouldn't have been this big of a concern. Right?</p><p><em>You've gotta drive...</em> Cindy's frantic words echoed in her mind. Grimacing, Lyra drew back the living room curtains to reveal the pitch-black sky outside. Not only that, but when she strained her ears, she was pretty sure she could hear the patter of freezing rain. A psychosomatic chill swept through Lyra's bones. <em>Drive...</em> A memory flashed through her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, trying to dismiss it. <em>No way. I can't.</em></p><p>"I'm sorry, Cindy," she whispered as she stared out at the dark void of the night. "I can't go there. Not now."</p><p>Not when it was so late, and the weather was acting up. But it would be alright, Lyra told herself, and desperately wished she could fully believe it. Cindy had nothing to worry about. Those lackluster song lyrics being discovered by their bandmates wouldn't be the end of the world, right?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. We can't know, but still we've got to</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As the hour grew ever later, Diablo and Neil's general rowdiness only became more overbearing. Tucker would say they were drunk, but he didn't recall seeing a single drop of alcohol being passed around that evening. Perhaps it was just the effect of two longtime friends spending a fun night together. Or maybe there was too much caffeine in the soda Diablo had been drinking earlier. Either way, by the time they were through with their little movie marathon, Tucker was painfully aware that despite his presence, he was very much not a part of their little friend group, and perhaps that was for the better.</p><p>"So, what should we do now?" Diablo asked, leaning back and stretching his arms as the credits rolled on the last film he and Neil had selected.</p><p>"Uh, let's see..." Neil fumbled around at the couch for a moment, then frowned as his hands came up empty. Tucker was about to remind him that the remote was on the coffee table when he sighed, "Oh, right, I left my magic eight ball back at my place."</p><p>Tucker raised his eyebrows. "And that's how you make all your decisions in life?"</p><p>"Pretty much, yeah." Neil gave him a lopsided smile. Then, suddenly sitting bolt upright and snapping his fingers in such a way that Tucker could practically see the lightbulb appearing over his head: "Say, do you like video games?"</p><p>"Do I?" Despite himself, Tucker laughed incredulously. "You're asking <em>me</em> whether I <em>like</em> video games... really now?"</p><p>Diablo reached over to give him a gentle shove. "Hey, he was just asking, dude! And, uh, if you like video games so much," he added, eyes narrowing with a playful gleam, "Why don't you marry one? Eh?"</p><p>"Well, I might have one day, if he--"</p><p>Tucker sobered up then, and remembered with a jolt of mortification that his current company did not know of his late lover's existence... and, quite frankly, he was in no mood to get into it with them now. Cheeks growing hot, he cleared his throat and made a vague waving gesture with his hands.</p><p>"...Heh. Video games, yes. I've heard that with them, anything is possible."</p><p>Neil squinted at him, and Diablo arched an eyebrow, both of them visibly confused; Tucker couldn't blame them. His blush grew deeper under their puzzled stares, like their eyes were heat rays sinking into his skin. For a moment he almost wondered if they really were heat rays, and one or both of these men were less human than they seemed. Either way, this situation was exceedingly unpleasant. Tucker cleared his throat a second time, slightly louder, and adjusted his shirt collar, at which point Diablo shrugged and reached over to change the tv's HDMI settings.</p><p>"Well, I don't have any of that newfangled VR stuff or anything, but I've got Guitar Hero and Smash Bros, and..."</p><p>"Wait, I've got a better idea," Neil interjected with another snap of his fingers. "Let's go over those new songs, like Lyra suggested. Might as well try to be productive at some point tonight, right?"</p><p>"Oh... uh..." Diablo's face visibly fell, only for him to hastily twist it back into a smile. "Sure? I mean, if that's what you want..."</p><p>He and Neil moved to get up, only to pause and look back at Tucker--who, for his part, wasn't particularly invested in their next activity one way or the other. As such, he kept his expression neutral and offered a slight shrug in response to the vaguely guilty look that flashed across Neil's face.</p><p>"Then again, I guess we can just play games after all," Neil decided. "Guitar Hero sounds good to me."</p><p>"Alright!" Diablo pumped his fist in the air. Reaching over to jostle Tucker, he added: "You up for that, Tuck?"</p><p>Tucker blinked, startled by the nickname. That wasn't something he'd ever been called by anyone other than a family member. Of course Diablo would have no way of knowing that, and obviously him using the nickname wasn't some misguided attempt to assert a closer relationship with Tucker than he had, but it was still more than a little jarring to hear coming from him.</p><p>"I, ah, I suppose," he stammered, adjusting his glasses. His insides were already beginning to twist up with nerves in anticipation of his inevitably poor performance, especially compared to a pair of bonafide band members, but with any luck he'd be able to blame his lack of skill on the late hour.</p><p>Sure enough, he proved to be no match for his opponents. The same fingers which were so adept at dialing phone numbers and stringing up newspaper clippings (although, come to think of it, Tucker had somewhat fallen out of practice with the latter hobby) proved utterly clumsy when it came to pressing the right buttons on a clunky plastic guitar at the right time. At least Diablo was a gracious host, and kept his boasting to a friendly minimum. Neil avoided boasting altogether, perhaps because his performance was nearly half as rusty as Tucker's.</p><p>"With all due respect," Tucker ventured when they were a few rounds in, Diablo besting Neil in four out of five turns so far, "I would have expected the two of you to be more evenly matched."</p><p>"Oh, yeah, well..." Neil shrugged, his face sliding into that signature lopsided smile of his again. The ditzy expression made it look as though there were nothing in his head except for stuffing, yet there was a sort of reassuring quality to it as well. "Playing guitar is pretty much Diablo's job. I mostly play drums or keyboard--sometimes other stuff, depending on the song."</p><p>Tucker nodded. "Ah, I see."</p><p>By the time they'd all had enough of Guitar Hero, it was creeping up on three in the morning, and Tucker was a few moments away from passing out right there on his feet. It wasn't the late hour that had him so exhausted--no, he had a long history with staying awake for days and nights on end, fueled by caffeine, not daring to sleep a wink until he'd gotten to the bottom of whatever mystery he was trying to crack. Not to mention that the bout of depression which had wracked him for weeks on end hadn't been terrific for his sleeping schedule. No, it was the social interaction that truly drained him. Diablo and Neil both seemed like decent men, but they were something of an overwhelming presence, especially when put together. There was only so much Tucker could take.</p><p>The last thing he remembered doing that night, after heading upstairs and telling the others that he was going to leave, was sitting down at Diablo's computer to look up which taxi company in the city had the most affordable prices. His memory ended with his body sinking into the computer chair's cushioned backrest, before he could so much as type his query into the searchbar.</p><p>...</p><p>
  <em>The air buzzed with the thick heat of summer, in terms of both the sweltering temperature and the drone of cicadas. Tucker stood at the top of the biggest hill on the lawn. It seemed to stretch down for miles. Without hesitation, he flung himself over the edge and let himself roll down the slope in a tangle of limbs and excitement.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lyra was there, at the bottom of the hill. She was taller, all angular, right down to her narrowed eyes. "You shouldn't do that. It's dangerous."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She grabbed Tucker and lifted him up off the ground. Her hands were freezing. Tucker shrieked, instinctively sensing that something wrong was happening, and writhed in her grip. She looked like an adult now, and so all of a sudden so was he, and he couldn't remember why he ever liked rolling down hills so much anyway. Her skin was pristine. Too pristine, for someone outside on a hot summer day. (Was it still summer? Or the dead of winter? Tucker's brain didn't supply those details.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her stare was too cold. So was her skin. Everything about her was just a little off. And slowly, the longer Tucker looked at her, the more certain he was that he was not looking at her real face--if she ever had a real face to begin with.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I know who you are," he gasped. He reached out, hooking his fingers around the edge of his cousin's face--her mask, rather--and began to pry it off. Behind it, her true identity was exposed. She was...</em>
</p><p>The realization sent a shockwave through Tucker's system that startled him awake. He shot bolt upright, breathless, heart hammering at a mile a minute.</p><p>His dream flashed through his mind as though in instant replay. <em>Lyra...</em> could it be true? He didn't want to believe it, but... <em>She's acted so strangely ever since we grew up... and even her bandmates make it sound like she might be hiding something.</em></p><p>He shuddered. Yes, there was no denying it. So many things he had willfully ignored about his cousin for so long--well, no longer. She wasn't what she seemed; he was certain of it. And whatever secrets Lyra was hiding, it was Tucker's duty to the world to expose them.</p><hr/><p>The following Monday morning, Lyra woke up to a series of text messages from Cindy. Her eyebrows shot up upon seeing the times the messages had been sent at. She wouldn't have expected her bandmate to be the type to stay up so late, although it made more sense once she considered that one could just as easily stay up late sitting in bed tossing and turning or listening to music and daydreaming rather than partying.</p><p>4:34 AM: <em>hey sorry i freaked out over the phone earlier</em></p><p>4:40 AM: <em>i forgot that ur scared of driving at night, sorry :/</em></p><p>4:47 AM: <em>its ok if u didnt go</em></p><p>4:48 AM: <em>really, not a big deal</em></p><p>5:30 AM: <em>hey so ive got something going on tomorrow. cant come in to work. sorry.</em></p><p>Lyra frowned at her phone screen as she scrolled through the messages. She tapped her thumb against the screen, wondering whether or not to compose a belated reply. Better to let her know that the messages had been received, right? But what could she say?</p><p>Despite Cindy's assurances that it was okay--or perhaps even compounded because of them--guilt still wormed inside Lyra for not being able to fulfill her bandmate's request. But if she had gone out driving in the dead of night, especially during a bout of precipitation, she knew from experience how well that would have gone. <em>Best</em> case scenario, it would be like accidentally locking herself in that arcade backroom all over again... only with a much larger element of actual danger, both for herself and for other drivers and pedestrians. She really did hate herself sometimes.</p><p>The message she ended up texting in response to Cindy was a simple: <em>Thanks for letting me know. We'll miss you at the studio today! </em>appended, after a moment's hesitation, with a peace sign emoji.</p><p>She was the first one to arrive at the studio that day. It was unsurprising, really, when she thought about it--oversleeping the morning after a rowdy get-together was something she was no stranger to. But when she walked inside, a cheerful greeting on the tip of her tongue, only to find the room completely empty, and odd sort of hollowness took hold of her. The studio didn't look right with nobody else in it, and it certainly didn't feel right when the only sound was the shuffle-squeak of her boots against the laminate flooring. It occurred to her that in all her years working with the band, despite pretty much being the de-facto leader, she was never the one to come into work first. Usually Neil got there first, or him and Cindy at the same time, because he often drove her to work. Whether Lyra or Diablo showed up last depended on the day, but it was more frequently the latter, never one to resist a fashionably late entrance.</p><p>With nobody around to make small talk with, Lyra pulled up a chair in front of a sheet music stand. She didn't feel comfortable singing in the studio without backup instrumentals (even if said instrumentals were just the others around her banging out random off-key little tunes as part of a practice session) so instead she grabbed her old electric guitar, which had been sitting in a corner gathering dust for a couple months. It hadn't been a conscious decision to stop playing it, but lately she found herself writing songs that never required an electric guitar, and so she just hadn't <em>needed</em> to use it as much lately... so, well, she hadn't. It didn't mean the instrument meant any less to her, but if not for the emptiness of the studio that morning, it might have sat there gathering dust for many months more. Funny how things went sometimes.</p><p>After blowing the dust off and locating the pick--wedged in a crack between the floorboards; she nearly broke a nail prying the damn thing out--Lyra plugged her guitar in, sat down, and got to strumming. There was no real rhyme or reason to it; she just plucked at the chords wildly like a little kid playing with their older sibling's instrument. The sound it produced wasn't particularly melodic, straying at times into downright grating, but even as the noise made Lyra wince, she couldn't stop the frantic movement of her hands.</p><p>It filled her with a swirling feeling of excitement that may well have been an adrenaline rush, if that was something she could get (she honestly wasn't sure). The cool sharpness of the wires beneath her fingers was familiar, yet as thrilling as though it were brand new. The act of pressing and striking those strings at the right angle and creating a burst of sound was an epiphany each time. Each chord reverberated through the studio, hanging in the air for just long enough to imprint itself upon one's soul before fading away. If Lyra closed her eyes, she could almost imagine herself onstage. Almost. Obviously she would never actually perform like this, without her bandmates, let alone without practicing. Still, the more she allowed herself to get lost in the moment, the lighter she felt. Lighter than she'd felt in quite a while.</p><p>She was broken from her reverie by the familiar sound of a motorcycle engine. Dizziful bliss giving way to plain old excitement, she moved toward the door to greet her bandmate. Then, on second thought, she set her guitar down and went over to lean against the far wall in order to appear casual when he walked in. She didn't want to make it seem like she was <em>too</em> excited to see him--that'd make her come off as pretty pathetic.</p><p>Her nonchalant facade was shattered before the door even swung all the way open. From outside, mixed with the crunch of boots on snow, she could hear the muffled sound of Diablo's voice... and then a soft, high-pitched sound. A giggle? Lyra perked up, startled by the unexpected sound. Then the door swung open, and Diablo strolled inside with a big grin plastered all over his face--an even bigger grin, and a whole lot dopier, than usual. He wore a faded movie t-shirt that left his forearms completely exposed--no jacket?--and, rather than automatically greeting Lyra as he entered the studio, he stepped aside to seemingly hold the door for someone. Lyra was about to ask what was up with him, only for the words to snag in her throat as a second figure stepped through the door.</p><p>Diablo's leather jacket wasn't fashioned to fit Cindy's fragile frame, but even with it hanging loose around her shoulders, she looked as though she were born to wear it, if only because of how bright her eyes were shining. Her cheeks were rosy as she came inside, a little hesitance to her steps. Her hair was a bedraggled mess, her eyeliner was smeared, and she appeared to still be wearing her pajamas--a fuzzy button-up top and matching pants, patterned with little pictures of cassette tapes and CDs--and yet Diablo stared at her as though she were a photo in the rock-and-roll hall of fame.</p><p>Lyra stared, baffled, at her bandmates. First the two of them could hardly stand to look at each other without getting all weird, and now they were coming into work together? But...</p><p>"Cindy? I thought you said you couldn't come to work today?"</p><p>"Oh! Um..." Cindy blushed, or at least she probably did; her cheeks were already pink enough that it was hard to tell. "Well, the thing I had to do today went a lot better than expected, I guess."</p><p>As she said that, she looked up at Diablo, and he chuckled. Stepping forward, he let the door swing shut behind him and casually looped an arm around Cindy's shoulders.</p><p>"Yeah, uh, I won't say it didn't take me by surprise, but y'know what? It was the best damn surprise I've ever gotten."</p><p>With each moment, Lyra was only sinking deeper into a vat of confusion. Head swimming, she looked back and forth between her bandmates, trying to parse what the hell was going on.</p><p>"So... okay," she said slowly. "Diablo, how was last night? Did everything go okay?"</p><p>He tilted his head and made a little "huh?" noise, evidently not initially understanding the question. Then he nodded. "Oh, uh, yeah, it was a blast. Neil will be here in a few minutes," he added, angling his head toward the door. "He's just dropping Tuck off at home first."</p><p>Lyra's eyebrows rocketed up for the second time in as many minutes. <em>"Tuck", is it, now? </em>Not that Diablo would have any way of knowing, unless Tucker had told him, but that was her cousin's childhood nickname--it was kind of weird hearing someone else call him that. Not to mention...</p><p>"Dropping him off? Don't tell me he spent the whole night at your place!"</p><p>(She didn't mean to sound quite so surprised, but, geez, it was hard to imagine Tucker willfully hanging out with someone like Diablo for the entire course of a night. Neil, sure, he was enough of a dork to realistically get along with her cousin... but even then, Tucker wasn't normally one for social interactions which didn't centre on him talking about himself and the ludicrous ideas he concocted. The notion that the three men could have gone the whole night without driving each other crazy was unexpected, to say the least.)</p><p>"I mean, I don't think he meant to," Diablo chuckled<em>. </em>"But he fell asleep in my computer chair, and we didn't wanna disturb him, y'know? He actually seemed pretty freaked out when he woke up, though, so maybe we should've..." He paused, giving a slight <em>oh well</em> shrug. "Anyway, like I said, Neil's dropping him off at home now."</p><p>"It's those gamer chairs," Cindy interjected, a playful twinkle in her eyes--which, Lyra noted, were fully exposed today by way of her bangs being pinned back. "They're too powerful! You sit down for one second, and you black out."</p><p>"Oh, and you'd know this from experience?" Diablo teased. "Does the lovely Cindy Lafayette experience a lot of heated gamer moments?"</p><p>Cindy giggled. "I'm about to experience a heated gamer moment right now!" she declared. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she stood up on her tiptoes, cupped Diablo's face in her dainty hands, and kissed him on the lips.</p><p><em>Huh? </em>Lyra stared, jaw dangling open like the corpse she was. <em>Since when is this a thing?</em></p><hr/><p>"Again, I really hope you enjoyed yourself last night," Neil remarked for about the dozenth time that morning. "We sure enjoyed having you there."</p><p>He caught Tucker's eye in the rearview mirror, that infectiously earnest smile plastered all over his face. Tucker struggled to return the friendly expression for courtesy's sake; he could only manage to tug one corner of his lips in a vaguely upward direction.</p><p>It wasn't that he didn't have fun. The night had been, overall, perfectly serviceable for the most part, with a few ups and downs. It was just hard to think about fun and enjoyment when trillions of thoughts were racing frantically through his head. Physically he was in the passenger seat of Neil's car, en route to his apartment complex, but his mind was ten thousand lightyears away.</p><p>Lyra. Not human? The idea seemed preposterous at first glance. They were blood relatives, with an unmistakable family resemblance, and Tucker was quite certain that <em>he</em> was human. Every routine health checkup he'd received had come up with exceedingly average results... well, a few neuroses here and there, certainly, but nothing outside the scope of ordinary human brain activity. Either all his doctors were working together in a grand conspiracy to keep his own inhuman nature a secret from him, or he was every bit as human as he seemed. Call him a coward, but this time, he was reluctant to buy into the idea of such a conspiracy. Unless there was some memory-altering brainwashing going on as well, he had never experienced anything that would point to himself, personally, being anything other than an ordinary human man.</p><p>His cousin, on the other hand... the more he thought about it, the more ashamed he was for not seeing it before. And indeed, their status as cousins rather than a more direct set of relatives was vital. They had no parents in common, and only one set of grandparents in common, meaning that it was entirely possible for Lyra to be descended from some manner of extraterrestrial or supernatural being without it having any bearing whatsoever on Tucker's biology.</p><p>That left the question, then: what type of inhuman organism was she? Or was organism even the right term? A shudder ran down Tucker's spine as he recalled her unusually cold skin, and her seeming inability to break a sweat. Could she be a robot? She would have to be highly advanced, if that were the case--more of an android than a robot, he supposed. Only, no, that couldn't be it. Growing up, he'd seen her slip and fall and skin her knee nearly twice as often as he'd done so himself. Tucker's memory was far from photogenic (sadly; such a gift would benefit him greatly in his line of work) but he could remember his childhood well enough to be certain that he had seen his cousin bleed, cry, and once vomit after eating too much birthday cake and then trying to do a backflip on a trampoline. A robot, or even a highly sophisticated android, couldn't do those things. So that was one possibility which could be ruled out.</p><p>(...Unless she were only partially robotic--a cyborg? But, no, that didn't make sense either. Again, he <em>knew</em> his cousin. He had seen both her hands more than enough times to know that she wasn't hiding any atomic copper claw up her sleeve, for instance (unless perhaps it was retractable? She <em>was</em> a cat owner... but, no, he didn't see why she would design such a contraption for herself).)</p><p>"Hey, uh, are you listening? I said we're here."</p><p>Tucker was snapped out of his thoughts by Neil gently prodding at his leg. Sure enough, a glance out the window revealed that they were in the apartment parking lot. Tucker's skin pricked with shame as he realized how utterly he had been caught up in his own thoughts. Still, he couldn't really blame himself, when those thoughts dealt with such an earth-shattering matter.</p><p>"Yes, yes, of course," he said, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses. "Goodbye, then. Perhaps I'll see you again some other time."</p><p>He unbuckled his seatbelt and moved to get out. Then, as another thought came to him, he paused with his hand on the door handle.</p><p>"Neil... you said you've been acquainted with Lyra since you were both in college, correct?"</p><p>Neil blinked, tilting his head. "Yeah, why?"</p><p>"Well, in that time, has she ever seemed... strange, to you?"</p><p>"Strange how?"</p><p>Tucker wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he thought Neil's voice came out sounding a little sharper than usual. A ray of sunlight reflecting off the front window glinted off Neil's glasses, obscuring his eyes; this time, unlike when the same thing happened the night before, the vaguely intimidating effect was not offset by a goofy grin. Tucker hesitated, suddenly unsure of what to say.</p><p>"W-well, ah," he stammered, "take her hands, for instance."</p><p>"Her hands." Now Neil spoke in an almost flat voice, which was even more worrying. Such a delivery didn't sound natural coming from him.</p><p>"Yes, or her skin in general, I suppose. I don't know how much you folks touch one another. She has cold hands, yes? But I distinctly remember her hands being warm when we were younger."</p><p>Even as he continued to speak, Tucker's heart sped up into an anxious flutter. If he knew what was good for him, something in the back of his mind nagged, he'd quit this conversation while he was ahead. But the mystery of his cousin's true identity was nagging at him with a much stronger pull.</p><p>"I see," Neil muttered. Turning his head to face away from Tucker, he lifted his shoulders in a very mechanical-looking shrug. (If anything, perhaps <em>he</em> was the robot. He had mentioned being descended from an inventor, after all.) "Well, you know what they say about rose-coloured glasses. Maybe you remember her hands being warm back then because the whole world seemed warmer."</p><p>To Tucker's surprise, despite the circumstances of the conversation, those words provoked a genuine wistful sigh from him. He shook his head, lips curving into a wry smile.</p><p>"I'm afraid it goes deeper than that," he said. "But I appreciate the sentiment."</p><p>With that, he got out of the car and closed the door behind him. Neil's countenance remained difficult to parse, but he caught Tucker's eye in the rearview and gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement before pulling away. Tucker was left with an unquelled feeling of unease swimming in his gut, and the distinct impression that he was once again in over his head.</p><hr/><p>The sequence of events, as best Lyra could understand from how Cindy and Diablo (and Neil, once he finally showed up) collaboratively explained it, had gone something like this:</p><p>1. Diablo developed a romantic infatuation with Cindy after the two of them being good friends for several years, and set about trying to subtly flirt with her in a low-pressure way.</p><p>2. She was flustered by his advances, and they prompted her to realize her own feelings for him, yet she somehow never processed Diablo's flirting as actual signs of attraction on his part.</p><p>3. Despite actively flirting with each other, they both somehow came to the conclusion that their feelings were unrequited (although Neil interjected that he could have told them otherwise if only they had listened). So that explained why they suddenly got all awkward and started avoiding each other.</p><p>4. Cindy composed a love song confessing her feelings for Diablo, only to second-guess herself. Too nervous to share the original song, she modified the lyrics to be about some generic nonsense ("See, I <em>knew</em> you could write good lyrics!" Lyra interjected at that point, to which Cindy blushed and muttered a barely audible thanks.)</p><p>5. Tucker, being "good at figuring things out", would likely be able to discern that whiteout had been heavily applied to Cindy's lyric sheet. It wouldn't be far-fetched to then imagine him using some trick using lights and mirrors or something to figure out what the lyrics originally said.</p><p>(As Cindy explained her line of thinking, she stared down at her shoes, which she scuffed against the ground. Despite her obvious embarrassment, though, Lyra couldn't fault her logic; if the guys really had discovered Cindy's lyrics, she could totally imagine such a scenario playing out.)</p><p>6. While Cindy had a breakdown because she was sure Diablo had read her original lyrics and now knew how she felt, the guys were completely oblivious to any version of her song's existence, modified lyrics or otherwise, because they spent the whole night watching movies and playing video games instead of reviewing the new songs. Under different circumstances, Lyra might have chastised her bandmates for slacking off like that.</p><p>7. At five in the morning, Cindy took a taxi to Diablo's house. (Diablo and Neil couldn't stop laughing while she explained this part, although they clamped their hands over their mouths each time and, immediately following each interruption, nodded at Cindy for her to continue.) She admitted to not having any real plan for this confrontation--"I guess I sort of pictured, like, this big dramatic scene playing out, and then I'd walk away and we'd never see each other again."</p><p>8. Neil was still at Diablo's house when Cindy got there (and so was Tucker, asleep on the gamer chair, but that wasn't relevant). She tearfully explained the situation, and Neil assured her that they hadn't so much as glanced at any of the papers Lyra lent them. The sounds of their conversation drew Diablo up from the basement, though, and upon seeing Cindy in such an obvious state of distress, he asked Neil what the hell was going on.</p><p>("You sounded so angry, dude," Neil put in, nudging Diablo with his elbow. "Did you think I was doing something to her?"</p><p>"Well, I dunno," Diablo huffed, crossing his arms. His cheeks were flushed visibly darker than normal. Come to think of it, he often got that way when it came to Cindy, and he had for some time... Lyra wondered how she managed to overlook her bandmates' awkward courtship for so long. "She was upset. I wasn't having that.")</p><p>9. Diablo's appearance only added to Cindy's distress. In a moment of desperation, he blurted: "Do you wanna ride on my motorcycle?"</p><p>(Neil said that line in an exaggerated impression of Diablo's voice, to which Diablo playfully punched his shoulder and Lyra exchanged a bemused glance with Cindy, whose cheeks hadn't grown a shade less rosy in the several minutes since she came inside and sat down.)</p><p>10. Cindy, suddenly too bewildered to be upset, had responded that she didn't know how to drive a motorcycle. Diablo explained--apparently in quite a flustered manner--that he would be driving the bike, and she would be sitting behind him.</p><p>11. So they went on a motorcycle ride. They didn't elaborate much on this part--Neil wasn't there for it, obviously, and both Diablo and Cindy got too blushy and giggly every time they tried to explain the details--but at some point, as the sun was coming up, she started humming a tune under her breath, and he joined in, and both of them just knew. He pulled over, and... well, presumably they exchanged some meaningful words, or maybe they just skipped straight to kissing. Either way, it was official: they were an item now.</p><p>"Geez," Lyra muttered once her bandmates were finally finished recounting the whole convoluted sequence of events. "I can't believe you guys."</p><p>"I know, right?" Neil clapped Diablo on the shoulder with a cheerful grin, then reached over with his other hand to ruffle Cindy's hair. "It's like being in high school all over again. Let's just hope these crazy kids can make it work, eh?"</p><p>Glancing between her grinning bandmates, Lyra bit her lip. <em>Yeah, no kidding,</em> she thought. <em>Especially considering, y'know, they're coworkers... if things go bad here, it could fuck up everything we've got as a team. </em>She internally shuddered at the thought of their band ending up with some kind of Fleetwood Mac "Rumors" situation on their hands.</p><p>"Anyway," Neil went on, "Now that everything's out in the open, Cindy, we'd all love to hear the song you wrote!"</p><p>"Oh! Um, well..." Cindy's eyes widened, visibly tensing like a deer in headlights. "I left the sheet music behind at Diablo's house, but I guess I could try singing? I just don't know if I can remember it all off the top of my head, so, um..."</p><p>"It's okay," Diablo assured her, taking her hand. "You don't have to."</p><p>"Yeah, just bring in the papers tomorrow and we'll work on polishing it up a little, and add it to our setlist," Lyra decided. "If that's okay with you, I mean."</p><p>Cindy nodded, lips pressed together in an anxious smile. Lyra felt a pang of sympathy for her bandmate; clearly Cindy wasn't a big fan of being the centre of attention, hence why she generally stayed in the back on piano or occasionally drums while performing. With any luck, now that they were together, Diablo's boisterous confidence and Cindy's shyness could balance each other out a little.</p><p>Band practice progressed more or less as normal from that point on. Lyra led the band through some rehearsals, and by the end of the day, it felt as though they'd made at least a little improvement. She tried to take it as a sign that two of her bandmates getting together wouldn't change anything for them as a group. Lyra had devoted the final year of her life and every year so far of her undeath to this band. She didn't know what she'd do with herself if things ever fell through.</p><hr/><p>Tucker spent that day--and, indeed, well into the night--holed up in his room, putting together a conspiracy board.</p><p>The giant corkboard mounted on his bedroom wall had remained stagnant for far too long, like weeks-old leftovers lingering in the fridge. Tucker wrinkled his nose as he unpinned faded newspaper and magazine clippings about Alec Guinness, Bill Watterson, Ronald Reagan, and various other celebrities who he had previously latched onto at some point. It had been so long since he'd assembled all these clippings that he could hardly remember what half of it was supposed to signify. In particular, he squinted at a large orange post-it stuck near the top left corner of his board reading "what's the significance of mr. bean?" in red pen, underlined three times. Most of the old clippings went into his dresser to be sorted through later, but he crumpled that particular post-it and threw it in the trash along with a few clumps of red string that he sadly wasn't able to untangle.</p><p>It took over half an hour to simply clear the board of its preexisting clutter. When it was finally done, Tucker stepped back to catch his breath and examine his work. It was bizarre seeing the corkboard bare again, with only the pockmarks left by all the thumbtacks to signify that anything was ever there. Speaking of which, all the thumbtacks were back in their box sitting atop his dresser, and the red string was at the ready, along with scissors to snip it with. All he had to do now was find a new set of clues to connect.</p><p>It was fortunate for the sake of his research that Lyra had attained such a level of celebrity. Simply googling "Lyra Amelia Deward conspiracy theory" yielded a dozen pages of results right off the bat, and almost everything on the first page actually pertained to speculation about his cousin (aside from some links to unrelated facebook pages, but the internet never was 100% cooperative in these matters). Tucker scrolled through each website slowly and carefully, jotting down notes and taking screenshots as he went.</p><p><em>"A romantic scandal?"</em> one headline asked, followed by a few paragraphs of speculation peppered with photos: <em>"Deward has denied the notion that her bandmate is having an affair with her, but the facts speak for themselves. Take a look at this eye contact and see just how 'platonic' it is."</em></p><p>Tucker grimaced, shook his head, and clicked through to the next result. Even if that particular piece of speculation were true, he had no interest in knowing such things about his cousin's personal life. (Which may have been hypocritical, given the long-winded recount he'd given her about his own tragic love affair... but she had specifically requested that he tell her about it, and there was nobody else he could have told who'd understand--he still wasn't sure <em>she</em> understood, really--so, all things considered, that was an entirely different case.)</p><p>Sadly, the next few posts he came across were hardly any better.</p><p>One blogger claimed to have seen Lyra at an unscrupulous political rally, but they provided no photo evidence whatsoever, and someone in the comments section had already debunked the post with a photo of Lyra performing a concert halfway across the country on the same day as the rally she'd supposedly attended.</p><p>An old interview with a diehard fan of Lyra's involved in-depth speculation on "all her secrets", by which they actually meant what kind of cosmetics she used. (Tucker remembered all the concealer that was in her house and scribbled it down in his notebook as a possible clue.)</p><p>A youtube video titled "Top 10 SHOCKING things you DIDN'T know about Lyra Deward!" spent over half its runtime not discussing Lyra at all, but rather the rest of her band. <em>"Did you know that Neil's magic eight ball has a cracked screen? Here's a zoomed-in photo as proof!" "Did you know that Cindy got her start making lo-fi indie music in college? You won't believe how different it sounds!" "In this old photo, Diablo is playing a guitar painted with a union jack. Could this mean he secretly has a British heritage? Or does he just appreciate the culture?" </em>Tucker ground his teeth in frustration as the video's narrator prattled on. Scrolling through the comments, most of them seemed to agree with him: this video did not reveal half as many shocking secrets about Lyra as the title claimed. Even the few points that were actually about her hardly contained any shocking information. <em>"Who knew that Lyra was in a near-fatal car accident six years ago?" </em>Everyone knew that! It had been all over the news for months on end. (And of course the news was how Tucker had learned of it as well, since at that point he was no longer on speaking terms with his dear cousin.)</p><p>
  <em>"We all love Lyra's bold and brilliant fashion choices. But what's something you notice about all these outfits?"</em>
</p><p>Tucker snapped to attention at that, bitter thoughts forgotten. He put the video on pause and scrutinized each of the photos displayed on the screen, his heartbeat picking up in excitement--was this video finally going to reveal some actually compelling information?</p><p>The photos showed Lyra at different points in her life: a childhood photo of her with long hair in its natural dark shade, not yet dyed any garish hues; a photo from her high school yearbook of her posing awkwardly with a diploma; a photo of her in college, hair newly cut and dyed a searing shade of pink, flipping a peace sign at the camera; a cropped photo of her performing onstage with her band; a publicity photo from a magazine; a filtered photo from a social media post; another photo of her onstage, alone this time, raising her microphone above her head as though offering a toast to the audience. Tucker's brow furrowed as he examined each photo in turn. They all had a few things in common... Lyra was smiling in all of them, she was wearing either leather or denim, and... hmm. That was it, as far as he could tell. Other than that, her ensemble was completely different in each photo, from the cheerful primary colours of the oldest photo to the sleek black and purple of the more recent ones.</p><p>Stumped, he resumed the video and sat at attention, pen hovering above his notebook to jot down whatever secrets the video revealed.</p><p><em>"If you were thinking she wears a lot of purple, you'd be right!" </em>the narrator announced, sounding very proud of themself. It then zoomed in on the childhood photo, with a red circle appearing to highlight her t-shirt. <em>"It looks like Lyra has had a favourite colour since she was ten years old."</em></p><p>"Eight," Tucker automatically snapped back, although of course he knew the video couldn't hear him. "She was eight when that photo was taken, thank you very much. And I remember that shirt of hers--it was pink, not purple."</p><p>With that, he closed out of the video, but not before leaving a thumbs down. On to the next search result.</p><p>The next result, as it happened, was an impressively lengthy discussion forum about the notion that Lyra had died several years ago and been replaced by a lookalike. To be clear, this was impressive not because of any actual evidence they offered, but by the sheer amount of people buying into the notion without question. Tucker's scowl progressively deepened as he scrolled through post after post of the same drivel: side-by-side photos of Lyra taken at different times, from different angles, under different lighting.</p><p><em>Well, of course she's going to look different!</em> That was how people worked; their faces didn't remain perfectly identical throughout their entire lives. But Tucker had seen Lyra, heard her voice, looked into her eyes (or just one eye, technically, as her other eye was typically obscured by her hair) and most importantly interacted with her. He <em>knew</em> she was the same woman as always!</p><p>(Well, that wasn't entirely true. She had changed a lot over the years, to the point where she was hardly recognizable as her past self. Tucker only wished he could blame all that on a conspiracy. But he'd seen the change happen in real time. Whatever his cousin's dark secrets were, this wasn't it.)</p><p>Finally, unable to hold his frustrations any longer, Tucker slammed his fists against the desk. After hours of research, all he had were a collection of photos and a single notebook page with "too much concealer--what's she concealing??" scribbled on it. Had he been away from this business for too long, he wondered? Had he lost his touch? Drawing in a sharp breath through his gritted teeth, Tucker got up and took a few steps back, combing his fingers through his hair.</p><p>
  <em>Cold skin... concealer... cagey behaviour... never breaking a sweat... hair covering half her face... hating zombie movies...</em>
</p><p>He could feel something--an epiphany waiting to happen--in the back of his brain, just out of reach. Tucker's breaths came hard and fast as his adrenaline levels picked up. Gasping, he clutched at his head and shook it furiously back and forth as though it were a tree branch, and shaking it would dislodge the glistening ripe fruit it bore. There was something else. Something he was missing. Something he was <em>forgetting, </em>rather.</p><p><em>Think, think...</em> Tucker screwed up his face in concentration so hard that tears began to form in his eyes. His fingernails, long and ragged from neglect and the occasional bout of nail-biting, unconsciously dug into the sides of his head, and he didn't even notice until he felt something wet on his fingertips and realized he was pressing hard enough to draw blood. <em>God damn it, what am I not seeing?</em></p><p>An image flashed through his mind: the most recent time he saw Lyra in person. Standing at his door, eyes wide and pleading--yes, eyes, plural--her hair pushed back, revealing the often obscured left side of her face. He hadn't focused too much on her face in the moment, being more interested in what she had to say for herself, but... there was something off about her left eye, wasn't there? Or...</p><p>The realization hit Tucker like a mallet to the head. He swore aloud, smacking himself in the forehead for not having put it together sooner. <em>Her face.</em> It seemed so obvious now. <em>The tattoo.</em> It wasn't a tattoo. It was what all that concealer was meant to cover up--and, in case that wasn't enough, why she let her hair hang over her face.</p><p>Lyra had a row of big black stitches running diagonally down her face.</p><p>"Oh, god," Tucker gasped. The floor seemed to swim beneath his feet; he gripped the edge of his desk to keep steady. "I'm such an idiot."</p><p><em>There is no conspiracy, </em>he realized, a godawful feeling of guilt settling like a boulder in his chest.<em> It's because of her accident six years ago. She was disfigured, and had to get surgery. </em>His face twisted into a grimace. A pressing tightness manifested in his throat, and behind his eyes he registered the pressure of tears forming. <em>And for a woman so concerned with appearances... she must feel awful. And then here I was, about to write her off as some kind of a freak.</em></p><p>"Oh, Lyra," he whispered, his voice cracking beneath the weight of his guilt. "I..."</p><hr/><p>By this point, when Lyra's phone buzzed and she picked it up, she wasn't shocked or amazed to hear Tucker's voice. A better term would be pleasantly surprised. Her lips involuntarily tugged themselves into a smile as she returned her cousin's greeting, wedging her phone between her ear and shoulder so she could talk to him while using her hands to feed the cat.</p><p>"So, Tuck, how'd you like the boys' weekend?" she asked.</p><p>"I... ah... it was fine," Tucker stammered. Obviously the question caught him off guard, but then he cleared his throat and quickly recovered: "Actually, I did have a decent time, all things considered. It was more manageable than I had feared. Why do you ask?" he added, a note of trepidation creeping into his tone. "They're not planning on inviting me to another one next week, are they?"</p><p>Lyra laughed. "No, not that I'm aware of. I think Diablo's mind is gonna be occupied elsewhere for the next little while, at least."</p><p>"Oh, alright." He paused. "Why?"</p><p>"Oh, right, you weren't there for this morning," Lyra remembered. She internally rolled her eyes at herself for forgetting that her cousin wasn't privy to all the same information that she was. "Well, um, basically, he's in a relationship now. And you'll never guess with who! Or, well, maybe you've already guessed since you're apparently so good at figuring stuff out, but--"</p><p>"Lyra, I know about your face."</p><p>He blurted it out so quickly that one would think he had a gun to his head. Lyra froze, spoonful of cat food lowered halfway to the bowl, Jaws circling around her legs meowing expectantly. She barely registered the kitten's hungry pleas; her mind was occupied with trying to decipher what the hell her cousin had just said.</p><p>"...Come again?"</p><p>"Your scars," he clarified. There was a distinct tightness to his voice; whatever he was saying, clearly he felt bad about it. Lyra didn't feel so good about it herself. An uneasy feeling washed over her as Tucker continued: "I know that you do your best to cover up the stitches on your face. But I've seen them, Lyra, and they're not--they're nothing to be ashamed of. It's no worse--I mean, it's no different from any of the other body modifications that people are getting these days. Why, I've even heard of a young lady getting Frankenstein stitches installed, specifically for aesthetic purposes..."</p><p>Lyra flinched at the word <em>Frankenstein.</em> That wasn't what she was; she knew that in much the same way she knew she wasn't like the zombies in <em>Dawn of the Dead.</em> But still. Being compared to such a thing, even indirectly... she shuddered, grimacing.</p><p>Tucker must have noticed that Lyra had gone silent (she realized that she'd stopped breathing, which would probably be concerning for most people) because he trailed off from his ramble. "Lyra? What's wrong?"</p><p>"...Nothing," she said, keeping her voice as flat as she could. "I'm fine. Sorry, what were you saying about stitches?"</p><p>"On your face... that's what you've been hiding, isn't it?" Now he sounded even meeker than before, not just vaguely guilty but downright apologetic. "I know. I figured it out. But it's alright! That's what I'm trying to say... that I don't care about the way you look, because you're my family, and I..." He paused again, voice hitching. "--and although I'm sure not all your fans would feel the same way, I know that any true friends of yours would."</p><p>As the meaning behind her cousin's words sunk in, Lyra's tensed muscles began to slacken. She tuned back into Jaws' demanding yowls and deposited a scoop of cat food into his bowl, then gave him a pat on the head, which he reciprocated by nipping at her fingers--how like his namesake.</p><p>With the cat looked after, she straightened up and moved to wash her hands at the kitchen sink. While rubbing dish soap over her hands, she tried to formulate a decent response, but came up empty. <em>Tucker... geez...</em> She was struck with a surprisingly sharp pang of an emotion that she couldn't quite identify--somewhere between guilt, gratitude, relief, and, overwhelmingly, affection. <em>You don't know my real secret at all, do you? You think it's as simple as me just having some nasty scars? </em>She rinsed her hands off and shook them dry, then wiped them on her jeans for good measure. <em>God, I wish that was all there is to it.</em></p><p>"Hello?" Tucker asked, a high-pitched note of nervousness in his voice that only tightened the tug on Lyra's heartstrings (metaphorically; her real heartstrings remained inactive). "Are you still there?"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," she assured him. She didn't mean to, but her voice came out as a comforting murmur. "It's alright, Tucker. I'm not mad at you."</p><p>"Good." Another awkward pause, and then, "We should see each other again soon. It's good to have company every once in a while."</p><p>Lyra laughed at that, and then immediately felt kind of bad about it, because she knew her cousin didn't have half the social life she did (and really, she didn't have that much of a life either outside the band, closely knit as they were... well, technically she had no "life" at all, but that was beside the point).</p><p>"Yeah, we totally should," she agreed, her initial smile returning now as she leaned against the kitchen counter with the phone in her hand. "In the meantime, how about we catch up a little? Because let me tell you, I sure had an eventful day..."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Up and down the ghost beach where I found your bones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Between two of her bandmates suddenly getting together and the close call with Tucker supposedly figuring out her secret, Lyra's mind was so occupied that she entirely forgot the looming deadline of the arcade's reopening until it was already well into February. She only remembered when she drove past it one day while en route to pick up breakfast for her bandmates from the coffee shop just down the block. Even then, after catching a glimpse of the building in the corner of her eye, it took a minute to register anything different about it. It was only when she was pulling into the coffee shop parking lot that she realized... there were cars in the arcade parking lot.</p><p>"Oh, shit," she whispered.</p><p>Sure enough, a glance over at the arcade revealed a family walking inside, passing beneath a brand-new marquis sign reading "we're open!" in big block letters. A sinking feeling washed over Lyra. If she had been planning on eating anything herself that morning, she probably would have lost her appetite. <em>Has it really been...?</em> She checked the date on her phone. <em>Reopened for a couple of weeks already... geez.</em></p><p>She scurried inside the coffeeshop like a woman pursued, casting furtive glances at the arcade down the block every step of the way. Realistically, she knew she wasn't in any danger. But even now, she just couldn't dispel the chill of apprehension she got every time she thought of the arcade, its owner, and the contents of her basement freezer.</p><p>At least the warm yellowish lighting and soft music playing inside the coffeeshop managed to ease her nerves a little. Lyra took deep breaths in, savouring the aromas of coffee and pastries. As she watched other customers sitting down and digging in, a sharp pang of envy manifested as a psychosomatic twinge in her stomach. By god, out of all the things about being alive, the ability to digest food had to be one of the things she missed the most.</p><p>(She could, of course, technically still eat and drink if she wanted to. It was just that her lack of a working digestive system meant she'd have to barf up anything she consumed or else it'd just pile up inside her and rot. So that wasn't exactly a fun time.)</p><p>"Hi, what can I get for you?" the barista chirped with a typical customer service grin. Before Lyra could answer, the younger woman's eyes suddenly went wide, and she gasped, leaning across the counter to gawk. "Wait, hang on--are you Lyra Deward?!"</p><p>Lyra internally grimaced, while externally flashing the barista a smile. Her stupid irrational worries about the arcade had gotten her so worked up, she'd forgotten to obscure her face in public... but, since this lady had already recognized her, there was no use trying to deny it. "Uh, yep, that'd be me."</p><p>Thankfully, the barista remained as composed as any random stranger could reasonably be upon meeting a local celebrity. "Oh my god," she breathed, wide eyes flickering back and forth as if to take in every possible detail. Lyra resisted the urge to take a step back. "That's amazing. I mean, I knew you lived in the area, I just didn't expect you to... you know... show up here."</p><p>"Well, uh, I'm not a frequent customer," she replied. (That much was true; without eating or drinking being a regular part of her life, she had no reason to frequent any coffeeshops, restaurants, grocery stores, or similar establishments.) "I'm just here to pick up some stuff for the band."</p><p>"Ohh, the band..." The barista said the word <em>band</em> in the sort of reverant whisper one might use when discussing royalty. "And, uh, how are they? I heard a rumour recently that there's been some relationship drama. Are you all still getting along okay?"</p><p>"We're fine," Lyra said. Then, not giving the barista the chance to ask any more invasive questions: "I'll get a hazelnut cappuccino, a london fog tea, an espresso, an apple danish, a cinnamon bun, and a fruit explosion muffin."</p><p>She ticked the items off on her fingers as she listed them, running through her mental checklist to be sure she wasn't forgetting anything. The barista nodded and set about ringing her up. Once the cost was tallied, Lyra covered it with a single practiced swipe of her credit card. The barista sent her off with a cheerful "Have a nice day!" which Lyra returned in kind, sending her a salute as she gathered up the tray of drinks and pastries and turned to leave.</p><p>On her way out, she walked past an old man standing in line. Moving at a brisk pace, she didn't stop to look twice at the old man until she heard his oddly familiar voice grumble: "Hey, that barista wasn't kidding. It really is Lyra!"</p><p>Lyra froze in her tracks, breath evaporating from her lungs. For the second time in as many minutes, she was struck with a psychosomatic sensation--this time, a tight clench of dread in her chest. She could almost feel a set of jagged fingernails digging into her heart as she turned to face the man who had wormed his way into so many of her recent nightmares.</p><p>"Boy, you sure look different than the last time I saw you," Mr. Arkwright chuckled. His weathered face bore a startlingly gentle expression--no different from when she would see him at the arcade as a kid, save for a few extra creases and gray hair--not at all like her nightmares. "I guess fame can really change a person, eh?"</p><p>All that Lyra could do for a moment was stand and stare at the old arcade owner. Despite everything about his relaxed posture and friendly countenance, not to mention the fact that they were in a public place and nobody would dare harm someone of her status while surrounded by onlookers, she couldn't manage to calm that crazy irrational part of herself screaming in the back of her mind that he was about to tear her to shreds.</p><p>"I--uh--yeah," she managed to choke out after a few seconds, as Mr. Arkwright expectantly raised his bushy eyebrows. "No kidding. I try not to let it go to my head too much."</p><p>"And since when are you famous? I'm talking about myself, running the most popular arcade in town!" He laughed and shook his head, while Lyra nervously forced out a chuckle. "Ah, I'm just pulling your leg. I'm glad you made it big, Lyra. I always thought you were meant for something important."</p><p>"Really?"</p><p>"Oh, sure. You and the little guy both," he added, lips curving into a frown, "Although it doesn't look like he's quite made it there himself. You still keeping up with him?"</p><p>"With Tucker? Uh, yeah." It wasn't a lie, although less than two months ago it would have been. Funny how those things worked.</p><p>Glancing around, Lyra became increasingly aware of the fact that she was positioned directly in front of the door--a fact that the other customers were clearly not too pleased about, considering all the foot-tapping and throat-clearing and barely concealed glares aimed in her direction. She sheepishly stepped aside to let another customer through. All the while, the warmth of the beverages in the tray she carried was gradually diminishing. So many excuses to bail out, and yet the greatest factor driving her to get away was still her persistent irrational fear of her conversational partner.</p><p>But it didn't look like Mr. Arkwright was ready to stop chatting yet. As Lyra inched her way toward the door, he clapped a hand down on her shoulder. If she still had a working heart, it may well have given out right then and there, from the sheer shock of his rough, calloused palm pressing down on her and effectively anchoring her in place.</p><p>"All last year, he couldn't keep away from my old arcade all of a sudden," the old man went on, using his free hand to gesture as he spoke. "He dropped by every other day, and you didn't hear this from me, but I'm pretty sure he accounted for about 70% of all the break-ins we got at night. I don't know what the hell he could've been doing in there, but..."</p><p>The whole time he was speaking, Lyra kept nodding, with the occasional interjection of "uh-huh" or "alright" under her breath. The door was barely three feet away. And yet here she was, stuck in this conversation with no way to break it off. She gave a tiny twist of her shoulders, trying to get away from him, but the weight of his hand pressed down on her too firmly to escape. Images from her nightmares flashed through her mind, sending a shudder through her immobilized body. She pictured his hands digging into her, piercing through her skin, hollowing her out...</p><p>In the end, she was saved by the barista calling Mr. Arkwright up to the counter to place his order. The moment he took his hand off her shoulder, offering her some friendly platitude that she was too frazzled to process, she turned on her heels and bolted. <em>Damn it, damn it, damn it. </em>In that moment, she didn't care that running away like that was more likely to arouse suspicion. She just needed to get away.</p><p>And so she did, sprinting across the parking lot with her order clutched tight to her chest, not daring to stop or look back until she was safely buckled in her car and pulling out of the lot. As she watched the arcade and the coffee shop recede in the rearview mirror until they were no longer visible, Lyra slumped in her seat and breathed for the first time in five minutes.</p><hr/><p>"I'm sorry, but the job position you requested has been filled. We appreciate you taking the time to apply nonetheless, and we wish you luck with your job hunt going forward!"</p><p>By this point, the rejection spiel was so familiar that Tucker could mouth along to it as his would-be employer rattled it off. He replied in kind with the customary niceties, then set the phone back on its hook with a beleaguered sigh. That was another potential job he could cross off his list...</p><p><em>At least you're trying, </em>he told himself. But after a dozen rejections in the span of two weeks, it was getting harder and harder to believe that anyone in the city would ever want to hire him.</p><p>He could see the problem, of course; despite having skills, he lacked actual work experience in most useful fields, and he got the feeling that listing his job at <em>UFOs Monthly</em> on his resume wouldn't exactly encourage anyone to hire him. But perhaps the most damning failure of his resume was his lack of references. When he wracked his brain, he truly couldn't think of anyone who might conceivably speak well on his behalf. An old university professor? No; he got the impression that most of his professors had found him rather insufferable, and he couldn't remember half their email addresses anyway. One of his former coworkers from the magazine? No; despite being a group of like-minded individuals in a broad sense, Tucker disagreed with most of the <em>UFOs Monthly</em> staff on too many important things to have ever really gotten along with them. One of Lyra's band members? Dear god, no! He had never worked with any of those people, so how were they supposed to vouch for him as a potential employee? No, there was nobody he could think of who could function as a reference, and so nobody had any reason to believe they should hire him.</p><p>With nothing else on his agenda for that day, Tucker logged onto his computer and checked his email. To his welcome surprise, there was a new message from Lyra in his inbox, with the title "Stupid tabloid". Tucker raised his eyebrows, intrigued, and opened the email. The body of the message read: <em>"Saw this in a magazine at the grocery store checkout. Pissed me off at first, but now I just find it funny. Maybe you'll get a kick out of it too."</em></p><p>Attached were a series of image files; Tucker clicked on each one in turn and brought up photos of a magazine article and a selection of pages. He had to lean forward and squint to read the text on the magazine, and even then he could only make out about half of the actual article, but from what he could see, it was a slightly worse version of the type of drivel his conspiracy theory research had yielded a couple weeks before.</p><p><em>"Quartet about to become trio? Who's getting kicked out?" </em>the headline asked, accompanied by stock publicity photos of Lyra and her bandmates. A few highlighted bits and pieces from the article that Tucker could make out included a quote from an anonymous customer service worker: "It took me a moment to realize, but she only ordered for three people. Why would she do that unless she's angry with one of the others? I'm telling you, they've gone too long without any sort of major disputes. No band has such a flawless record. There's gotta be trouble brewing in paradise, I just know it!"</p><p>Admittedly, Tucker knew that feeling--the inability to accept the world as it was; the urge to hunt for secrets simply because one felt that there <em>must</em> be secrets out there, or else the world would be a terrible place to live. But the way the quote was worded made him snort in disbelief at this person's presumption. Why would Lyra only order for three people? Why, there were countless possible reasons for something like that! One of the other band members could have been sick or otherwise absent that day, or just not hungry. Or, for that matter, Lyra could have only been ordering for her three bandmates and not for herself. Imagine that!</p><p>While he was snickering at the article's idiocy, one of the graphics it used caught his eye--a blurry photo, probably taken on some other customer's cellphone, of Lyra standing in line at what looked to be a coffeeshop. Standing behind her, out of focus, was an older man. Tucker couldn't tell, especially not when looking at a low-resolution photo within a low-resolution photo, but it looked almost like... <em>Mr. Arkwright? </em>Tucker let out a quiet huff of disbelief. Now there was a face he hadn't seen in a while. He couldn't say he missed having the old arcade owner hanging around, either--he'd certainly been a thorn in Tucker's side enough times during his love affair with the Polybius--but, upon being suddenly reminded of the old man's existence, Tucker was hit with an unexpected pang of nostalgia.</p><p>After a quick dip in his photo editing software, he emailed Lyra back a zoomed-in, cropped version of the photo from the magazine, with the old man circled in red and a question mark drawn next to him. <em>Re: tabloid-- This isn't Mr. Arkwright by any chance, is it?</em></p><p>About an hour and a half later (during which time Tucker fiddled around on his computer, watching flash animations and playing online games like checkers) Lyra responded.</p><p>
  <em>Re: re: tabloid--</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yeah, that's him, believe it or not! Which reminds me, I guess the arcade's been reopened for a while now, huh? Maybe you could go back there sometime if you ever wanted to, idk, get closure or something. (Of course, don't go back there if you think it'll trigger you. Stay safe)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Lyra</em>
</p><p>A strange feeling washed over Tucker as he read the email. He hummed in contemplation, running his teeth against his bottom lip.</p><p>Going back to the arcade... he'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about it. As his cousin rightly alluded to, though, he wasn't sure if it would be a good idea. His old journal was stashed away in a storage box beneath his bed, because even now he could hardly stand to look at it--not even reading it, just glancing at the cover--without being hit with an overwhelming wave of sorrow that more often than not sent him breaking down in tears. If such a simple thing could still have such an effect on him even months after the fact, what would going back to the arcade do to his psyche? He didn't want to boot his recovery all the way back to square one. But, on the other hand, the notion of closure was an enticing one.</p><p>He just didn't know how he could go about visiting the arcade in a way that would feel appropriate. Breaking in at night? He was trying to put that kind of behaviour behind him, and anyway, if going back there really did prove disastrous for his mental state, then it might be better to have other people around to stop him from doing anything drastic. Just hanging around without playing any games? He'd be accused of loitering, especially since he got the feeling Mr. Arkwright had already been suspicious of his frequent visits. Going there and playing games normally? That would be a rather tasteless way to honour his lover's memory, and besides, he could hardly afford to spend money on such frivolous activities when he was still out of...</p><p>...A job.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unless?</em>
</p><p>Tucker's mind lit up with a tingle of excitement. Pulse quickening, he scurried from the computer desk back toward his phone, then darted over to grab the phonebook first and flipped through the yellow pages to find the number he wanted. He was on the couch with the phone in his lap and his finger less than a millimeter away from the dial when he remembered the issue of his lack of references. He put the phone down and circled back to the computer, where he typed out another email to Lyra.</p><p>
  <em>If it's not too much trouble, may I use you as a reference on my resume? I know people aren't meant to rely on family members for work references, but if you get a call, simply advocate for me without revealing that we're related. If you do this for me, I promise I'll look for a way to pay you back somehow.</em>
</p><p>He paced around his apartment, mind running a mile a minute, while he waited for her to respond. He checked his inbox every other minute, and checked the time even more frequently than that, to the point where less than half an hour stretched into what felt like half a day.</p><p>The more time he had to think about it, the more clearly it was a terrible idea. Why, several months ago Mr. Arkwright had told him upfront that the arcade wasn't hiring, and even if they were, Tucker was not encouraged to apply. But several things had changed since then. And, really, what was the worst-case scenario? Just another rejection in a long line of rejections. Tucker had nothing to lose from this, really, but he could very well have something to gain.</p><p>To his relief, Lyra's eventual reply to his request was a simple <em>"Yeah, of course." </em>No sooner had this message materialized in his inbox than Tucker opened up the word document of his resume, typed his cousin's name and contact information into his otherwise barren contacts list, saved and printed a fresh copy, and then went back to his phone to dial the number. The phone rang an impressive four times, each ring a droning sound that seemed to drag on for just a second too long. Tucker jiggled his legs impatiently, twisting the phone cord tight around his hands like the leash of an uncooperative dog. Then, finally, he was met with a gruff "Hello?"</p><p>"Hello, sir," Tucker said, speaking briskly so Mr. Arkwright wouldn't have a chance to preemptively cut him off. "I'd expect things are rather busy around the old arcade, and I worry that you might have your hands full. Well, I know my way around the place quite well, and I've been looking for a new job recently..."</p><hr/><p>Lyra was sitting at home one afternoon, trying to tune her electric guitar, when there was a ring in her cellphone. She picked it up without checking the caller ID, assuming it would be either Tucker (maybe phoning her to vent, which was a less-than-thrilling prospect, but it wouldn't be the first time) or one of her bandmates. The voice that greeted her instead caught her so off-guard that the guitar nearly slipped from her hands in shock.</p><p>"Lyra, sweetie, is that you? How are you doing today?"</p><p>"I, uh... h-hey, Mom," Lyra stammered. She set the guitar aside and straightened up in her seat. "I'm okay. Uh, why do you ask?"</p><p>"Oh, just checking in on my little girl. So," her mother continued, in such a playful tone that Lyra could practically hear her winking, "Did you spend yesterday with anyone special?"</p><p><em>Yesterday? </em>Lyra's brow wrinkled in confusion until she remembered that it was the day after valentine's. Somehow the date had completely slipped her mind. <em>Ah, right, that's why Cindy and Diablo took the day off...</em></p><p>She glanced around the otherwise empty room, as though some attractive individual might suddenly materialize under her scrutiny, then looked over to where her kitten was sleeping on the windowsill.</p><p>"Well, um... Jaws is here," she quipped.</p><p>The kitten's ear twitched at the sound of his name, and he raised his head with a sleepy mew. With a soft chuckle, Lyra reached over to scratch him behind the ears. He leaned into the touch and started purring.</p><p>"Sorry, come again?"</p><p>"Oh, uh, the kitten you and dad got me," Lyra clarified. She realized with a twinge of guilt, or at least the sensation that she <em>should</em> probably feel guilty, that she hadn't been in touch with her parents since christmas.</p><p>"Ah, yes, of course. And how is she?"</p><p>"Oh! Actually, it turned out Jaws is a boy. Not that it matters, really, since he's a cat, but..." Lyra shrugged. "Y'know."</p><p>"I see... well, that was my mistake, then. I always think of cats as a female animal," her mother explained. "Your aunt and I used to have a cat growing up, you know. She was a real nuisance, always dodging around and throwing hissy fits."</p><p>"Cool," said Lyra, for lack of any better response to her mother's remark. Then, after a few moments of silence interrupted only by the quiet rumble of Jaws' purring: "...So, did you just call to ask if I'm dating anyone?"</p><p>"You're not, then, I take it."</p><p>Lyra cringed. The barely concealed disappointment (disapproval, even) in her mother's tone was hard to miss. <em>What, is being a literal celebrity not good enough? I have to experience romance too in order to be successful in your book? </em>She kept those thoughts to herself, of course, gritting her teeth to stop any snappy words from jumping out of her mouth. It wasn't as if she were opposed to the idea of dating or even getting married someday (hell, she <em>would</em> hypothetically even consider having a kid one day, if it weren't for her whole situation). It just didn't seem like a very realistic prospect for her, for reasons which her parents didn't and probably couldn't understand.</p><p>"Yeah, no, still single." Despite the fact it wasn't an in-person conversation, Lyra felt compelled to twist her face into an attempt at a good-natured smile. "Well, uh, nice talking with you?"</p><p>"Oh, no, don't hang up yet! I was just going to say, your father and I have been missing you lately."</p><p>Lyra's thumb was already hovering over the 'end call' button. "Yep, miss you guys too. Love you--"</p><p>Before she could finish off with a <em>"bye"</em> and hang up, her mother barged on ahead. "So we were wondering if you'd have us over for dinner next weekend."</p><p>"...Huh?"</p><p>"You're always such a gracious host, Lyra," her mother cooed. "Not to mention a fantastic cook. The lasagna you served last time we were over was delicious."</p><p>At that, Lyra had to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of laughter. Her, a fantastic cook? Yeah, sure. The microwave dinner she'd served her parents the last time they came over was really a testament to the culinary skills that she definitely had, for real.</p><p>"Oh, but I promise your cooking isn't the only reason we want to visit," her mother giggled, completely unaware of the source of Lyra's amusement. "We want nothing more than to catch up with our darling daughter!"</p><p>"...Alright," Lyra replied, because there was really no other way she could reply without seeming needlessly rude. It wasn't like she was opposed to seeing her parents or anything, so... "Sure. See you then, I guess."</p><p>She hung up the phone with a sigh. Jaws blinked slowly at her as though in a display of sympathy, then climbed over onto her lap and settled down. Lyra leaned back, sinking into the fabric of the living room sofa, and absentmindedly ran her fingers through the kitten's silky fur. <em>Geez,</em> she thought, lips quirking into a grimace as she thought of her barren fridge and pantry, and of the unfortunately not barren freezer in her basement. <em>Guess I'd better go grocery shopping.</em></p><hr/><p>Passengers trickled out one by one at each stop, until eventually the bus was nearly desolate. It seemed that not many people took the bus down to the old arcade at 7:00 in the morning, a good several hours before it opened. Tucker, left sitting alone at the back of the bus, leaned his head against the window and gazed out it with a wistful sigh. The sky was pale gray, with the sun shining dimly from behind the cloud cover; the streets were slick with snowmelt. Although it wasn't time for spring just yet (no, that would take at least another month, if not longer) it wasn't as cold as it had been lately. He almost felt overheated in his sweater vest and scarf, although he knew he'd get cold if he took them off.</p><p>Anxiety buzzed in his stomach as the bus carried him toward his destination. He unconsciously twisted his hands together in his lap. What would be waiting for him at the arcade, he wondered? Would he be able to handle it? Had this whole operation been a terrible mistake? Was taking this job just another act of reckless self-sabotage on his part? Just what the hell was he thinking, anyway?</p><p>"Oh, god," he whispered as, not for the first time that morning, his fluttering nerves solidified into a sharp jab of dread. "I can't do this."</p><p>But it was too late to back out now. The bus rumbled to a stop just a few doors down the street from the arcade, and the doors slid open. With shaky legs, Tucker stood up and walked outside. He almost forgot to thank the bus driver, and by the time he muttered a hasty last-minute "thank you", the doors were already closing behind him.</p><p>As he approached the arcade, a very loud and shrill voice in the back of his mind shrieked that he had to run away, <em>right now, or else. </em>But...</p><p>He stopped, forced himself to draw in a breath, and then slowly let it out. As a rush of air fell from his parted lips, so too did some of the tension seep out of his body. <em>It will be okay, </em>he told himself sternly, and somehow he had an easy time believing it. Beneath the cloud cover of stress and anxiety, a faint but steady ray of hope shone within him.</p><p>He came to a stop outside the arcade and examined it. Cheery red brick exterior; door with a fresh coat of yellow paint; window blinds drawn, and a sign saying "sorry, we're closed" next to a cartoon drawing of a frowning clock... looking the place up and down, the feeling that settled most prominently within his heart was a deep ache of nostalgia, both for the carefree days of his youth and for the many days and nights he'd spent there the year before. This ache tightened, accompanied by a pang of wistfulness, as he looked up and found that the faded old sign had finally been taken down and replaced by a newer and flashier one.                                                                                                                 </p><p>Nobody answered at first when Tucker stepped up and knocked on the door. He stood there for a moment, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward, and shuffled his ill-fitting dress shoes against the damp sidewalk. Then, as a chill breeze suddenly picked up and blew a few strands of hair into his face, he remembered to check his appearance--first impressions were important, after all, even when it was actually the farthest thing from a first impression. He leaned over to examine his reflection in the window. Aside from his hair, which remained slightly unruly despite his best efforts, he didn't think he looked too shabby. Just for posterity, he gave his glasses a quick polish, adjusted his bowtie, and made one more pass at smoothing down his hair.</p><p>When the door swung open, Tucker had his hands folded behind his back and was resisting the urge to bounce anxiously on his heels. Despite how many times he'd mentally run through this meeting, his heart rate still skyrocketed up upon coming face-to-face with Mr. Arkwright. He hastily flashed the arcade owner a smile, which may have come out just a tad too wide. The old man returned the expression with a bemused smirk.</p><p>"Good to see you here nice and early, Tellison. C'mon in and I'll show you the ropes."</p><p>Arkwright led Tucker inside, where the thermostat-regulated temperature served as a much-welcome contrast to the cold. Tucker unzipped his sweater vest and loosened his scarf. As his glasses fogged up from the change in temperature and obscured his vision, he let second nature take over; a lifetime of experience guided him through the rows of machines, whose general layout had never changed even as individual games came and went over the years.</p><p>"Now, your main job is gonna be cleaning," Arkwright was saying as he walked along. "Especially up in all the nooks and crannies where I have a hard time reaching with these old bones."</p><p>"Will do, sir," Tucker replied.</p><p>Suddenly, an odd sensation washed over him--sort of like walking through a cold spot. He stopped, skin prickling. Mr. Arkwright kept on walking ahead of him and speaking.</p><p>"...And this here is the backroom, used for storage. I'll give you a key once you've proven yourself trustworthy. No offense, Tellison, but I know you've gotten up to some shady business around this arcade of mine..."</p><p>The old man's voice faded into the background of Tucker's perception, like a radio broadcast dissolving into static. With a mounting feeling of dread, Tucker rubbed his glasses off on his sleeve and slipped them back on. Sure enough, he stood at the back of the arcade. A couple metres away, Mr. Arkwright gestured at the door to the backroom. On either side of Tucker stood game machines, in tidy little rows, all laying dormant since the arcade wasn't open to the public yet. Yes, nice neat rows, except...</p><p>It was like looking at an open mouth with the front teeth knocked out. On some level, Tucker would come to be grateful in retrospect for the yawning empty space. Having a new game standing there instead only would have fostered a burning (and, frankly, quite unfair) resentment toward Mr. Arkwright for having replaced the destroyed machine. But in the moment, seeing nothing but a discoloured patch on the floor where the Polybius had once stood felt like taking an arrow to the chest. His muscles clenched as he stood there and stared at the gap between the machines; at his sides, his hands tightened into fists.</p><p>"Tellison?" Mr. Arkwright squinted at Tucker, looking confused and possibly concerned, although it was hard to tell. "What's happening? Are you alright?"</p><p>In an attempt to repeat his earlier success at calming himself, Tucker took a deep breath in, held it for a moment, and let it out. The breath whistled around his gritted teeth like an icy wind through a cavern. He couldn't get his shoulders to stop shaking, let alone relax. A mix of sorrow and shame burned through his skin. <em>You knew it</em><em> would be like this,</em> he reminded himself. <em>There was never going to be a version of events where... where...</em></p><p>But Tucker realized then, standing there, his true subconscious motivation for wanting a job at the arcade. Because some unbelievably foolish part of him really had thought--had hoped--that he would find his lover there, restored somehow. There were people who knew how to repair video games, weren't there? And people could come back from horrific injuries--just look at Lyra. Was it really <em>so</em> far beyond the realm of believability to hope that the Polybius could be restored?</p><p>Yes, of course it was. It was foolish to even dream of it. Tucker realized this now, and it made him feel...</p><p>Angry at himself, first and foremost. But also at everyone and everything else. At the ruffians who had broken into the arcade in the first place. At Mr. Arkwright, irrationally so, for not having better security in place. At the Polybius, or rather the man he had once been, for putting himself into an ordinary arcade machine rather than something that was capable of defending itself. But most rationally, and by far most prominently, at himself. How could he get his hopes up like that, without even realizing the lies he was subconsciously telling himself?</p><p>Seeing the empty space where his lover should have been wasn't closure. If anything, it felt more like being torn open all over again.</p><p>In the corner of his perception, he registered that Mr. Arkwright had his hands on his shoulders now and was saying something--maybe asking if he was okay. Tucker realized that not only was his body tense and shaking, but he was crying yet again--hot, fat, ugly tears that dribbled out of his eyes like exhaust from an old car that was on the verge of breaking down.</p><p>"C'mon, son, quit crying," the old man was saying. "What the hell do you have to cry about?"</p><p>Tucker shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a low moan of despair. Then his gaze wandered past the arcade owner and fell onto the door to the backroom. <em>That room... </em>the Polybius had been safely hidden away there for so many years. Lonely, but safe. No robbers or vandals would bother breaking into the storage room, not when there was so much for them in the arcade proper. Realizing this, Tucker was hit with a whole new wave of self-loathing. <em>It really was all my fault, from the very beginning. Everything was because of me.</em></p><p>To his surprise, Mr. Arkwright apparently followed Tucker's teary-eyed gaze. "The backroom, eh?" the old man muttered. "Ah. I don't suppose you'd know anything about what happened there, do you?"</p><p>That unexpected question momentarily pulled Tucker out of his pool of misery. He blinked up at the arcade owner in confusion and gave a slight shake of his head.</p><p>"No?" Mr. Arkwright raised his eyebrows, the concern in his tone giving way to a sharp edge of accusation. "Really. Because I seem to remember you marching up to me a couple years back and saying you knew about the Polybius, and you'd tell the world about it unless I put it out in the open again. The next thing I know, someone's broken in and bashed the damned machine to hell."</p><p>The words hit like a knife directly to the heart. Tucker flinched, sucking in a ragged gasp. <em>He thinks I did it? </em>It was his fault, and he understood that now, and hated himself all the more for it, but...<em> He thinks I'm the one who defiled his body with spray paint, took a crowbar to his face, knocked him over and laughed as he lay there bleeding?</em></p><p>"And then," Mr. Arkwright carried on, jaw visibly clenching, evidently unaware of the effect his godawful accusation had on Tucker, "The hell am I supposed to do with all that fucking blood and guts? Well, maybe I should've hidden them better, I don't know. But I know better by now than to trust you, Tellison. I know you had something to do with the organs going missing. And if you so much as think about telling the police or any news reporters or <em>anybody,</em> then I swear to god I'll--I'll make you regret ever coming to my goddamn arcade!"</p><p>He punctuated that last remark, which came out as an outright growl, with a jab of his finger against Tucker's chest. Tucker could only stare blankly in response. <em>What? </em>The old man's accusations rang in his ears like a gunshot. He could hardly even make sense of what Mr. Arkwright was saying. When he did, his mind was so unequipped to react to such a revelation that he blanked and started laughing hysterically.</p><p>Blood and guts... the Polybius's organs. Mr. Arkwright had kept them somewhere--in the backroom? And then... they were gone. Stolen? By somebody. Not by Tucker, obviously. And this couldn't be some kind of trick, because even if he was trying to coax a confession out of him, Mr. Arkwright had no reason to tell such an overly specific lie. But then...</p><p>Who the hell <em>had </em>taken those organs? And where were they now?</p><hr/><p>When new-age hippie Skye Deward and hardworking businessman Ernest Malick had first started their ultimately ill-fated relationship, they'd never dreamed of producing a progeny whose legacy would so brilliantly outshine their own. At least, that was the kind of thing they said all the time. But Lyra was pretty sure her parents had always intended for her to be successful. Maybe they just hadn't counted on her finding success in the music field--and, hey, to be fair, Lyra had hardly expected that herself when she was younger. But here she was, doing pretty well for herself all things considered.</p><p>And here her parents were, standing on her front porch a few awkward feet apart, looking back at her with matching grins. Ernest was holding a bottle of wine. Lyra cocked an eyebrow and nodded, giving them a silent invitation to come on in.</p><p>"No need to stop and look around," she told them when she noticed their gazes flitting around as she led them down the entrance hall to the living room. "Not like I've done anything new with the place since last time."</p><p>"And maybe that's a good thing," her father chimed in. "It looks lovely the way it is."</p><p>"Thanks." Stepping into the living room, Lyra waved her parents in the direction of the sofa. "Alright, make yourselves at home. I've got the kettle going in the kitchen; I'll go put on some tea."</p><p>She could hear her parents talking from the other room while she was brewing the tea, although not loudly enough that she could make out everything they were saying. From the few snippets she could catch, it sounded like the same stuff they always said--how affluent a life she was leading, how amazed they were that she had managed it, and then either how "confused" they were that she was still single, or how worried they were that Lyra's life would come crashing down around her one day. A wry smile tugged at Lyra's lips as she poured the freshly-brewed beverage into two of the three cups laid out on the counter. <em>Well, they aren't wrong about that last part. </em>If you wanted to get technical, Lyra's life had crashed and burned a long time ago, on a literal level. Luckily she was doing just fine for herself now.</p><p>She was just getting some honey out of the cupboard when there was a knock on the door. She blinked, startled by the noise. For a moment she thought she might have just imagined it, but then the sound repeated, louder and with a bit more urgency behind it.</p><p>"Uh... Mom, Dad, could you get the door?" she called over her shoulder as she grabbed a spoon out of the cutlery drawer and dipped it into the honey jar.</p><p>"Were you expecting any other visitors today?" Ernest inquired, a sharp note of suspicion in his voice.</p><p>"No, but--" The knock repeated again, accompanied by the sound of someone jiggling the door handle around. Lyra wasn't sure, but she thought she recognized the cadence of that knock. "Can you just see who it is? I've got my hands full in here."</p><p>"Well, alright..."</p><p>Lyra turned her attention back to stirring in the honey while her parents got up to answer the door. Once everything was in order, she picked up her parents' cups of tea and carried them out. She crossed the threshold back into the living room just in time to hear her mother exclaim, in much the same tone one might use upon encountering an insect in one's soup: "Lyra, what is <em>he</em> doing here?!"</p><p>"Who?" Lyra asked automatically, although she thought she knew who it would be even before she laid eyes on him.</p><p>Sure enough, Tucker rushed into the room, pushing her parents aside in the process. Lyra jumped back, letting out a little yelp of surprise; a bit of tea spilled out of the cups and splashed her in the face.</p><p>Immediately upon seeing her cousin, she knew something was very wrong. His eyes were wide and manic, his face flushed and streaked with tear stains, and his bowtie had come undone. Before she could ask him what was the matter, he flung himself at her with a nearly animalistic shriek. Lyra barely had time to flinch before Tucker's hands were gripping her shoulders, his nails digging into her skin like a drill. She stumbled back half from shock, and half from the sheer force of him grabbing her.</p><p>"Lyra! You!" He gasped for breath, his entire body heaving, between words; his voice was raw with a mix of fury and tears. "You took him!"</p><p>"What?!" Lyra stared, beyond incredulous, at her distraught cousin. "Hey, what's the deal with you? Calm d--"</p><p>"No! I know it was you!" Tucker wrenched his eyes shut and gave a furious shake of his head. "It only could have been you. You went by the arcade, didn't you? Who else could it have been?"</p><p>"Tucker, listen, I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"</p><p>In the corner of her eye, as she wrestled to free herself from her cousin's vice grip, she saw her parents approach, their expressions setting into scowls. With a grunt of effort, her father grabbed Tucker and threw him forcefully off of Lyra. Tucker went stumbling backward, into the trajectory of Skye Deward, who promptly knocked his head to the side with a slap so forceful that for a horrifying split-second Lyra thought it had broken his neck.</p><p>"Get off of her!" Skye snapped.</p><p>"And get out of this house," Ernest added in a growl. "We've told you before that you're not welcome in this family!"</p><p>"Hey, come on, leave him alone!"</p><p>Lyra, almost on instinct, moved to place herself between her cousin and her parents. She took Tucker's glasses off and rubbed her sleeve across his face, wiping away some of his tears. He blinked blearily at her, face crumpled with emotions that she could only identify about half of.</p><p>"What's happening, Tucker?" she whispered, brushing her thumb across his cheek. "I'm sorry, but I really don't know what you're talking about. Who did I 'take'?"</p><p>"I... you... he..." Tucker drew in a ragged gasp, held it a moment, and let it out in a heavy rush, shoulders slumping. "The arcade, Ly... the Polybius. After he--after the break-in, he..."</p><p>"What are you doing, Lyra?" Skye interjected, clamping a hand on Lyra's shoulder. "None of us want him here. Why bother humouring him like this?"</p><p>"Shut up, Mom," Lyra hissed, turning to glare at her mother. Ernest opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "And you too, Dad! Both of you, just... leave us alone!"</p><p>Her parents' eyes narrowed. Lyra squared her shoulders and scowled back at them, sending a silent message: <em>I don't care what you think. Tucker is family, and I love him. </em>She wrapped her arms protectively around her cousin and pulled his trembling form close against her.</p><p>"...His organs," Tucker stammered on, his voice rising into a warbling crescendo. "They were there, in the arcade... Mr. Arkwright took them and put them in storage. But now they're gone, and... and..."</p><p>And suddenly, for perhaps the first time in her entire adult life, Lyra knew exactly what Tucker was talking about.</p><p>The realization hit her like a chainsaw to the chest. Her body went slack, and she dropped to her knees, involuntarily dragging Tucker down with her. <em>The fucking organs. Of course. </em>It seemed so obvious now that she wanted to kick herself--well, who else could those organs have belonged to?</p><p>"Oh, Tucker," she breathed, her voice trembling. A tight squeezing phantom sensation took hold of her chest, even as her physical heart remained as still and silent as ever. She shut her eyes as a tear slid down her cheek, smudging her carefully applied foundation. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea what I was doing."</p><p>"...You mean it <em>was</em> you?" Tucker's voice, muffled against the fabric of Lyra's shirt, no longer carried any hint of accusation. He only sounded curious; puzzled.</p><p>"Yeah, uh..." Pulling back to hold her cousin at arm's length, Lyra ran her hand over his bedraggled hair in a half-hearted attempt to smooth it out. "Remember after you told me your story, and I came by your apartment and I said there was something you needed to see?"</p><p>Tucker nodded slowly. Behind his oversized glasses, which sat on his face at a skewed angle that she would have laughed at under different circumstances, his eyes widened in recognition.</p><p>The corners of Lyra's lips tugged into a wry half-smirk. "Well, uh, I think it's time you finally saw it."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Science was a masquerade meant to sell you lemonade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For a moment, when he looked into the freezer and saw the jars, Tucker thought they were submerged in water. It took him a few seconds to realize that it was just his vision that was swimming, by virtue of how hard his head spun. He gulped, gripping the sides of the freezer with white knuckles. His stomach hitched violently; good thing it was empty since he'd skipped breakfast to get to his would-be "first day of work" at the arcade earlier.</p><p>At his side, Lyra laid her hands (startlingly cold as always, although their temperature was less noticeable this time given their proximity to the open freezer) on his shoulders. "Sorry," she murmured. "I... I don't even know why I took them in the first place. You don't have to keep looking, if you don't want."</p><p>Tucker managed to give a slight shake of his head. Slowly, tentatively, he reached in and wrapped his hands around one of the jars. The frost-coated glass stung against the palms of his hands; he winced as he lifted it up to eye level and peered inside. Within, he could just make out a lumpy pinkish-beige shape. It certainly looked like a human organ, although obscured as it was, it was hard to be certain...</p><p>"It's all there," Lyra assured him--although the way she said it, voice tense with abject disgust, suggested that she didn't mean for it to be a reassuring statement. "All the organs a human body could want... uh, except skin, I guess. Plus teeth and some other gunk. Believe me."</p><p>Not that he wasn't inclined to believe his cousin's words, but Tucker went through each jar anyway, just to truly confirm it for himself. One by one, with trembling hands, he removed each jar from the freezer, examined its contents, and then carefully put it back. Several times, his hands shook so hard that he nearly dropped the jar he was holding. At one point, a jar containing a set of what looked like human teeth filed into fangs slipped from between his fingers, and Lyra grabbed it just before it could shatter against the concrete floor. With each jar examined, Tucker's heart thrummed with more intensity. He held his breath with each jar he selected, and only exhaled once he was able to silently confirm for himself that it was another body part accounted for.</p><p>Sure enough, just as Lyra promised, it appeared to be all there. But it wasn't until the very bottom of the freezer, shoved into the far right corner, that he found the jar he'd been most desperately hoping for. Holding the jar with the brain in it, Tucker drew in a shaky breath. Fresh tears sprung up in his eyes, immediately turning to ice droplets in the proximity of the freezer; Lyra, evidently mistaking the source of this emotional display, wrapped her arms around him from behind and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.</p><p>"It's gonna be okay, Tuck. I know it must be hard for you, seeing this, knowing it's..."</p><p>"No," Tucker blurted, no longer able to contain himself. He hastily but ever-so-cautiously set the brain jar back down, closed the freezer, and then sprang back up, turning to meet Lyra's concerned frown with a giddy grin. "No, this is... this is tremendous! It's better than okay!"</p><p>"Say what?" Lyra's brow furrowed. Her eyes darted between Tucker and the freezer. "...How so? I mean, what are you gonna do, hold a memorial service?"</p><p>There was something a little odd about her tone of voice there--a sharp edge beneath the confusion that sounded almost like caution. But whatever she may have been afraid of, there was nothing to worry about. Tucker clapped her on the shoulder and shook his head, still grinning brighter than he had in weeks.</p><p>"If I manage to figure this out, my dear cousin, there will be no need to hold a memorial service."</p><p>He could tell it took Lyra a moment to process what he was getting at--and he couldn't blame her, because it was admittedly still a far-fetched idea by most people's standards--but when she did, her reaction was priceless, the way her eyes bulged and her jaw dropped open. In that moment, there was ironically something very corpselike about her expression. Tucker laughed.</p><p>"It sounds unbelievable, I know. But I have reason to believe that it's possible. These organs--" He patted the top of the freezer, and got a little jolt of satisfaction from the way it thrummed beneath his hand. If only it were warmer, it would feel almost like touching the Polybius again. In an indirect way, perhaps... "If a man was able to put his own organs inside a machine and continue living, then why couldn't those same organs be transferred to another body and given life once again?"</p><p>"I-- that's--" Lyra stammered. The choked sound she emitted sounded vaguely like a glitch of distortion in a computer-automated voice. "...Are you sure you could do that? I mean..." She bit her lip, gaze darkening. "How would we get it a new body?"</p><p>"Well, that... er..."</p><p>Tucker trailed off, his smile fading as he realized that she raised a very good point. How, indeed? Somehow, that question hadn't even occurred to him. <em>Ah, Lyra, always the responsible older cousin looking out for me... </em>Despite the bitterness of the sinking feeling that washed over him, it was better that she raised the issue when she did rather than him having to cross that rickety old morality drawbridge when he came to it. Still, this issue didn't automatically render his idea a lost cause.</p><p>"I do have an idea about that," he told her. "Although I can't be certain whether it's feasible. Come by my apartment..." He paused, chewing his lip thoughtfully, and tried to imagine how long it would take him to reconstruct one of his past conspiracy boards from memory. He was sure Lyra was tired, anyway; maybe waiting a few days would be best. "Next week. I'll call you when I've got my evidence ready, and we can discuss our plans from there. How does that sound?"</p><p>He extended a hand toward his cousin. She stared at it, and then back at him, with her features twisted into an expression of abject bewilderment and possible discomfort. Still, she tentatively reached out and slipped her unusually cold hand into his own, and they shook on it.</p><hr/><p>Lyra spent the whole week trying to come up with a good way to back out of visiting Tucker's apartment, but in the end, she came up empty. On the drive over, she kept trying to convince herself that she had nothing to worry about. And, indeed, she wasn't sure exactly what she <em>was</em> worried about. Gross and freaky as the whole thing was, if Tucker really did have some way to potentially revive his lost love... more power to him, right? She cared for her younger cousin--she always had, and in the past few months, she'd realized that she still did and always would. She wanted him to be happy. So, as long as the method he had in mind for resurrecting his weird video game boyfriend wasn't anything <em>too </em>illegal and/or morally reprehensible (which she doubted it would be, because Tucker was a sweet kid, despite everything else about him) there really shouldn't be any reason for her to be so on edge about it.</p><p>And yet. Apparently her subconscious disagreed with her on this matter, and thought that there was definitely something to worry about. She just couldn't get her muscles to unclench or her fingers to stop drumming anxiously against the steering wheel. If she had a heartbeat, she was sure it'd be all worked up too. By the time she pulled into the parking lot of Tucker's apartment complex, there was a dull ache in her molars from how much she'd been grinding her teeth.</p><p>The first two times she had dropped by her cousin's apartment--the time she had meant to drop off his clothes but wound up getting into an argument with him, and her subsequent return a few days later when she actually got around to dropping those clothes off--she had only stood in the doorway without getting a good look at his living space. Now, as she stepped inside the complex and made her way through the sparsely decorated lobby, she wondered if the source of her anxiety was mother-hen-ish concern over how well-kept his apartment was.</p><p>She took her phone out and, for about the dozenth time in as many minutes, checked the texts her cousin had sent her earlier.</p><p>[1:45]<em> The elevator has been fixed</em></p><p>[2:03]<em> No need to ring the bell</em></p><p>Sure enough, unlike the last time she was there, the elevator doors slid open for her without issue. She took it upstairs and then made her way down the hall to the right door, where her knock was immediately met with a muffled "Come right on in!" from another room. She tentatively tried the doorknob--it was unlocked. Lyra frowned, mildly troubled by the inherent danger of keeping front doors unlocked, but shrugged to herself and pushed the door open. She slipped her shoes off before stepping inside--a common decency which he had not shown when he barged into her house the week before, but to be fair, she was a lot more composed now than he had been then.</p><p>To her pleasant surprise, the main area of his apartment looked normal enough. There was a somewhat worn-down sofa with a single pillow, and a small coffee table upon which a gleaming red landline phone sat on its hook; there was a desktop computer with several post-it notes, other scrap pieces of paper, and writing utensils scattered all over the desk, but it wasn't really any worse than the state of Lyra's kitchen table. Speaking of which, he had a humble kitchenette and some shelves in the corner; everything over there was impressively tidy. There was an old cryptid-themed calendar from the previous year still on the wall, which she sympathetically clucked her tongue at until she noticed it was flipped to August rather than December--not a physical representation of him being mentally stuck in the moment he lost his boyfriend, then. No, despite his knack for memorizing dates and other trivia, he was just bad at keeping track of time. Or maybe he just wanted to continue admiring a grainy ""photo"" of the... Lyra squinted at the line of text beneath the picture. Chupacabra? Sure, why not. For all she knew, chupacabra was totally the new yeti.</p><p>His bedroom door was slightly ajar, but not enough that she could really see inside. As she approached, the door swung open and he poked his head out to greet her.</p><p>"Lyra! It's good to see you. I'll admit, I wasn't sure if you were going to show up."</p><p>A manic grin was plastered across Tucker's face, which was streaked with sweat and decorated with strands of disheveled hair. The top couple buttons on his shirt were undone and his sleeves were rolled up. It all gave him a rather mad-scientist-esque vibe, which Lyra wasn't sure how to feel about, all things considered. She cleared her throat and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.</p><p>"Hey, Tucker. Good to see you too." She glanced over her shoulder at the front door. "Are you sure it was a good idea to leave your door unlocked? Someone could've broken in."</p><p>"Oh, don't worry about that," he assured her with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Nobody around here would want to steal from me. I'm not popular enough for that."</p><p>"Well, yeah, but that doesn't necessarily..."</p><p>She trailed off as Tucker turned his back on her and retreated into his room, where she could hear him bustling around and rustling papers. After a moment's hesitation, she walked inside to see what was going on.</p><p>Three of the four walls of Tucker's bedroom didn't look much different from his living room. His bedsheets were neatly arranged, although slightly wrinkled. He had another calendar, this time actually for the correct year and flipped to the correct month, themed around vintage phones. If she were to look inside his dresser (which of course she wasn't going to do, because that would be weird) she was sure she'd find all his clothing items arranged neatly by category. The top of the dresser was a cluttered mess just like the computer desk, but again, she wasn't really in any position to throw stones there.</p><p>Then there was the giant corkboard mounted on the wall over his bed. It was covered in bits of paper--photos, news clippings, printouts from websites, post-it notes, etc.--all pinned to the board with thumb tacks and connected with red string. It was like something straight out of a television show. And there was Tucker, standing on his bed with his back to her, fiddling with one of the many pieces of string that criss-crossed the board like a spiderweb.</p><p>"Jesus," Lyra muttered under her breath as she stared up at the conspiracy board. She unconsciously took a step back.</p><p>Tucker looked over his shoulder at her. He was holding a thumbtack between his teeth, which he mumbled around to address her. "Sorry, did you say something?"</p><p>"Uh, no, I just... you think all this--" She gestured weakly at the board-- "is gonna help you get your boyfriend back?"</p><p>"Well, it's too early to be certain, but..." Tucker popped the thumbtack out of his mouth and jabbed it into what looked like a ticket stub. Then he stepped back and gestured triumphantly at the apparently completed board. "You must admit the evidence is compelling."</p><p>"Right..."</p><p>Lyra warily scanned the unintuitive mess of papers and string. She briefly wondered if she was expected to figure out for herself what it was all supposed to mean. Luckily (or, well, maybe not that luckily) Tucker clapped his hands together and launched into an explanation.</p><p>"You've heard about the trend of 'reviving' deceased celebrities through the power of technology, correct? Holograms, CGI, and whatnot," he began, pointing to several photos of holographic concert performers and screenshots of CGI actors in movies. "And believe me, I know technology is incredible. But at this level? I can't believe these companies would really invest so much money in that kind of technology. See, I've printed off some financial graphs here, and..."</p><p>As Tucker ranted on, voice gradually slipping into a higher pitch as he got more worked up, Lyra instinctively tuned him out. The longer she stared up at that board, the more her head hurt; it was too dizzying for her to concentrate.</p><p><em>You see? </em>a voice in the back of her head whispered. <em>This is why you stopped talking to him. He's nuts. Even now, he still hasn't changed. </em>Lyra scowled and shook her head, trying to banish her treacherous thoughts. That wasn't fair, she told herself. Weird as it was, like it or not... conspiracy theories were Tucker's passion. They were to him what singing was to her. She didn't have to understand or agree with any of it in order to respect her cousin for who he was.</p><p>With that thought at the front of her mind, she forced herself to focus back in on Tucker's explanation.</p><p>"...edited in post to <em>appear</em> computer generated," he was saying now as he jabbed his finger furiously at some blurry picture that looked like a behind-the-scenes photo of a movie set. "And of course some productions really do rely on computer graphics, perhaps in order to throw people like me off their trail. But the truth is, eight times out of ten, those people were really there. And how is that possible? Why, it's quite simple!"</p><p>His glasses flashed as he spoke, partially obscuring the manic gleam in his eyes. Lyra suppressed a shudder. However, she wouldn't be able to suppress the shudder that ran through her bones at Tucker's next confident remark.</p><p>"There's an organization out there reviving dead celebrities--not just in image, but in body and mind alike!"</p><p>His words, so triumphant in tone, rang in her ears like a shot from a rifle. <em>What?  </em>She felt a psychosomatic hitching sensation inside of her, and although she hadn't eaten anything in months, for a moment she was convinced she was going to throw up from the nauseating disorientation that swept over her.<em> He can't... since when does he know?</em></p><p>"I don't know where they operate from, or how to get ahold of them," Tucker went on with a sigh, evidently not noticing Lyra's reaction. "But since you're in show business... I don't suppose you have any idea how to reach out to such an organization and request their services?"</p><p>His voice picked up there at the end with a note of pleading. The way he blinked at her, wide-eyed, reminded her of when they were kids and he would beg for her to use part of her allowance to buy him a new toy or book or candy bar or something. Lyra gulped, her panic suddenly offset by a sharp twist of guilt.</p><p>She did know exactly how to get ahold of such an organization. Of course she did. Their number was in her phone right next to her agent's, conspicuously listed as "dad work phone" so as not to raise suspicion if her phone ever wound up in someone else's clutches somehow. Why, two months ago she'd phoned them up, ready to bargain for Tucker's life in the event that he didn't survive his little collapsing in a blizzard stunt. And although she didn't know much about how the science of their operation worked, Tucker was probably right. The organization <em>could</em> probably turn a bunch of intact organs in jars back into a living person. At least, she wouldn't put it past them. There <em>was</em> a non-zero chance that Tucker could get the love of his life back.</p><p>But.</p><p>A normal person wouldn't know that.</p><p>Cindy didn't know about it. Diablo didn't know about it. Even Neil, the only one who knew Lyra's secret, didn't know any of the details. It just wasn't the kind of information that ordinary humans were privy to. The only people who knew about it were...</p><p>Well. People who the organization had revived.</p><p>People like Lyra.</p><p>The undead.</p><p>"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her voice came out strained; it was hard to speak around the sudden constriction in her throat. "I... I can't help you."</p><p>Because if she told him, then he'd know. And if he knew--if someone like Tucker found out that Lyra was the fucking walking dead--he would never be able to keep it a secret. Her career, and her comfortable existence which she could colloquially describe as a "life", would be over.</p><p>All that, and she didn't even know for sure that the organization would be able to help Tucker anyway. All that sacrifice, just for the <em>off-chance</em> that her cousin <em>might</em> be able to get his boyfriend back.</p><p>"Oh... well, that's alright," he told her, still smiling but with the light in his eyes notably dimmed. "I'm sure I can figure something out. So long as I can get my hands on--"</p><p>"No." At her sides, her hands clenched into fists. She lowered her head, unwilling to look him in the eye. She didn't want to watch the way his face fell. Having to do this already hurt enough that she had to force the words out through gritted teeth. "Listen, I can give you the organs--it's not like I have any use for them anyway. But keeping them won't do you any good. There's no way to bring dead people back to life, Tuck. So please, just... just quit while you're ahead, before you get put on some kind of government watchlist. Okay?"</p><p>With that, she turned and ran, tears of shame burning in her eyes. Tucker pursued her, of course, calling plaintively after her. She tried not to let herself hear what he was saying. She slammed the apartment door behind her and bolted down the hall toward the elevator--no, it looked like the elevator was occupied. She swerved toward the stairs.</p><p>Tucker probably could have caught up with her if he tried. He didn't have an exceptionally scrawny physique or anything, and Lyra's physical capabilities weren't really anything more special than an average person. But by the time she made it to the ground floor, she realized she couldn't hear his footsteps echoing above her. Part of her wanted to look back, meet his eyes, mouth an apology. But she couldn't allow herself to do that.</p><p>As she was running down those stairs, for lack of an accelerated heartbeat or pumping adrenaline, her mind went into overdrive and mapped out a plan. She would apologize later, via email or phone call, and she'd promise to give Tucker the organs anyway if he was sure he wanted them--in a few weeks. She was going on tour with the band, she'd say, so she wouldn't be able to give him what he wanted until then. Secretly, she would get in touch with her agent and see what they could do. If his boyfriend suddenly showed up alive again at his doorstep, would Tucker accept Lyra's apology? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, they would both get what they wanted that way.</p><hr/><p>Tucker stopped at the landing between the third and fourth floors and leaned over the railing to watch Lyra bound down the rest of the stairs two at a time. The disappointment only settled heavier in his heart. Was she really so desperate to get away from him?</p><p>"Well, I suppose it's my own fault," he muttered reproachfully to himself. "I should have known better than to expect her to understand."</p><p>But <em>he </em>understood, he reminded himself, and that was the important part. Tucker's hands tightened around the banister railing as he fought to hold back tears. He knew... well, no, technically he didn't know for a fact. But he was confident in his theory. Confident enough to stake his own life on it, if he thought he had anything to gain by doing that. Lyra was wrong, so wrong. There <em>was</em> an organization out there reviving dead celebrities, and Tucker <em>would</em> track them down if it was the last thing he ever did.</p><p>He turned away, no longer willing to bother chasing after Lyra. He would get those organs from her one way or another; it was only a matter of time. Then she'd see. But first he had to finish his research. It was back to the drawing board, or the corkboard, as it were.</p><p>As he was heading back into his apartment, something caught his eye. There, in the hallway just outside his front door, sat a pair of black high-heeled boots with dark reddish-purple laces.</p><p>Tucker blinked, momentarily puzzled by the seemingly sudden appearance of the boots. He remembered an old story about a drunken man finding a pair of red shoes in a bar, stepping outside, and... ah, but those kinds of tales were too fanciful even for someone like him. No, he quickly realized how those shoes had gotten there. <em>Lyra...</em> The corner of his lips twitched into a faint melancholy smirk. <em>In such a hurry to get away from me that you left your footwear behind, really?</em></p><p>Well, he didn't want a repeat of the whole ordeal with him leaving his clothes at her place. With a sigh, he bent down and picked the boots up, and made his way to the elevator with them in hand. Hopefully Lyra hasn't driven off already; if she had, he would just have to return them to her another time. Maybe, he thought wryly, they could arrange a trade: her boots in exchange for the organs.</p><p>Of course, despite him hoping otherwise, he was more or less expecting her to already be gone by the time the elevator reached the ground floor. He was pleasantly surprised, then, to find her standing in the lobby, facing the doorway and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Lyra glanced over her shoulder at Tucker as he half-jogged over to her.</p><p>"You, ah, you forgot these," he announced, holding up her boots.</p><p>"Right." Her voice was difficult to read. She bit her lip, shoulders still visibly tense. "Um, thanks."</p><p>He paused, unsure of how to hand them off, and settled for awkwardly tossing them to her like a particularly feeble-armed baseball player. She caught them deftly in one hand and bent down to put them on. While she was lacing her boots up, Tucker stared down at her and wondered whether he should be the first one to leave. He could preserve some semblance of dignity now, maybe, if he turned around and headed back upstairs...</p><p>"I really am sorry, you know." Lyra's quiet voice took him by surprise. She spoke in a low mumble, not looking up to meet his gaze. "I hope you don't think I'm mad at you, because I'm not. I really do want you to be happy, you know that."</p><p><em>Do I know that?</em> he wondered. Sometimes it was hard to believe that anyone wished for his happiness. But if Lyra said so, he wasn't going to argue with her. Tucker forced a smile onto his face, even though his cousin wasn't even looking up to see it.</p><p>"Yes, well, I feel the same way about you. And I don't blame you for not believing me," he told her honestly. "I know it's hard to believe, but..."</p><p>"But you believe it anyway," Lyra sighed. She gave one final tug on her laces and stood up, running a hand through her hair. "Thanks for remembering my shoes. Can't believe I almost ran off without them."</p><p>"Indeed..." Tucker glanced over Lyra's shoulder at the parking lot outside--a veritable minefield of puddles and patches of slowly melting snow. He shuddered at the thought of trying to traverse it barefoot. "You could catch your death of cold."</p><p>To his surprise, Lyra actually laughed at that, in the sharp and quickly stifled way that one might laugh at a funeral. She shook her head with a vaguely incredulous smile.</p><p>"Uh, yeah... that's always a danger, huh?" She shrugged, still looking wryly bemused for reasons Tucker didn't quite understand. An inside joke, presumably--she probably had a lot of those with her band. "Anyway, no hard feelings, right? See you around, Tuck."</p><p>"Right," he replied, doing his best to match her upbeat energy even though he still felt tinged with melancholy. "See you."</p><hr/><p>The band usually spent most of the work day in the same room aside from short breaks, and by the time work was over, they had all seen enough of each other that they only felt the need to hang out together outside of work on special occasions. Well, if this wasn't a "special occasion" (or extenuating circumstance, more accurately) she didn't know what was.</p><p>When work let out, Lyra tapped Neil on the shoulder and he was turning to leave. She shot him a meaningful look: <em>Stay behind. We need to talk.</em> Neil, quite attuned by now to her silent messages, nodded. His face set into a troubled frown as he regarded her; she wondered with a pang of self-consciousness whether her harried mental state was obvious to the others.</p><p>They hung back, pretending to tidy up stacks of sheet music that were already in order, while their bandmates wandered out with a spring in their steps, hand in hand. In a way, Lyra reflected, it was convenient that Cindy was dating Diablo now. It meant she could get a ride home on his motorcycle rather than having to get a lift from Neil, which made it easier for Lyra to get Neil alone like this. Plus, when the happy couple were so enthralled with each other, they were less likely to notice whatever the people around them were doing. As she heard the familiar rumble of Diablo's bike starting up outside and then gradually fading into the distance, she wondered whether he and Cindy even registered that Lyra and Neil were staying behind at the studio.</p><p>"Hey, so..." Neil scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the floor, creating a squeaking noise like a wheel that needed changing. "What's this all about?"</p><p>"Okay, so, uh..." Lyra took a deep breath and, despite knowing nobody was listening in on them, stole a glance around the studio just to convince herself they really were alone. "I think Tucker might be catching on to my condition."</p><p>(It wasn't the exact truth, but it was close enough. Lyra wasn't going to tell anyone, not even Neil, about her cousin having been in a relationship with a fucking video game, let alone about her having a bunch of organs in jars in her basement freezer. And even though Tucker didn't seem to know <em>yet</em> that Lyra herself was undead--she'd mentally replayed their exchange over and over, and if he had any such suspicions, he was doing one hell of a job hiding it--he <em>would</em> undoubtedly find out if left to pursue his theories.)</p><p>Neil raised his eyebrows. "Only just now?"</p><p>"Yeah, I mean, I don't think he actually knows yet, but..."</p><p>"Okay, I see...." A little crease appeared in Neil's brow as he spoke, accompanied by a hint of an inquisitive tone that Lyra didn't like the sound of. "So, uh, with all due respect... why can't he know the truth, exactly?"</p><p>Lyra bristled. "What?"</p><p>"I mean--" Neil stuck his hands in his pockets with a shrug. "He's your family, isn't he? If I was, uh, in your position, I wouldn't keep it a secret from Cindy. Or from you, or from Diablo. Or from my parents, for that matter."</p><p>"Well, good for you," Lyra snapped. "Have fun getting carted off to some facility where scientists hook you up to machinery and poke at you all day!"</p><p>"Is that what would happen if the truth were to come out?" Neil challenged. "Do you actually know that? I mean, do you even know anybody else like you? Or are you just making assumptions based on what you've seen on TV?"</p><p>"There's truth in television, dude! And even if that's not what would happen," she went on when her bandmate's expression remained skeptical, "I still don't want to risk my whole career."</p><p>They stood in tense silence for a moment, glaring at each other. It was far from the first time they'd had this kind of argument. By this point, they were really just walking around in circles, or maybe it was more like walking around in squares. If it was the first time, or the second time, or even only the fifth or sixth time these tensions were flaring to the surface, Lyra would be a lot more upset than she was. As it was, she still had to restrain herself from slapping her bandmate across the face, and she guessed he felt similarly.</p><p>("What do you mean, don't tell them?" he had protested four and a half years ago, when she scrubbed off her concealer to show him her scars. "They deserve to know, don't they?"</p><p>"No! They can't--nobody can know about this!" Lyra had gasped, hot tears of shame and humiliation bubbling out of her eyes as she stared at her marred reflection in the bathroom mirror. "I mean, look at me--I'm a freak! How am I supposed to have a life when I'm not even alive?"</p><p>He had laid a hand on her arm--right across another long looping scar, where shards of broken glass from the car window had devastated her tissue. She was almost glad the crash had killed her. Having to feel that kind of pain would have been excruciating. As it was, she still got phantom twinges sometimes when she looked at the stitches snaking here and there across her body.</p><p>"Hey," Neil had whispered. The corner of his lips had lifted into a soft, reassuring smile--slightly crooked, in a way that would appear teasing if it weren't for his painfully earnest inflection. "You're gonna be okay. If it's really what you want, I won't tell them.")</p><p>Now, as the silence of the empty studio pressed down on them, the haughtiness gradually seeped out of her. Lyra sighed and shook her head.</p><p>"Look, one way or another, I know Tucker's not gonna be able to keep a secret about something like this. And, hey..." Her lips twitched into a hint of a wry smirk. "If I really am in danger of being dragged off to some evil government facility, keeping it a secret will keep him safer, right?"</p><p>"I guess you're right," Neil sighed. "I do still wish we could just tell the others, though... I mean, we've known them long enough now to trust them, right?"</p><p>The way he said it, shoulders rising in a defensive shrug, indicated that he didn't expect Lyra to seriously consider it. She took herself by surprise, too, every time she found herself thinking about it. But it was true: in the years since her death and resurrection, she really had grown to trust and appreciate her bandmates. Enough that she had a hard time imagining them betraying her trust. But still... Lyra bit her lip, hard enough that she could feel it even with her mostly defunct nerve endings. You could never really be sure about these things. And when the stakes were so high, it was better to be safe than sorry, right?</p><p>The longer she stood there thinking, the more she realized she had no idea what sort of advice she'd hoped to get out of Neil anyway. Just because he knew her secret didn't mean he'd know what to do in this situation. Or rather, he knew what <em>he </em>would do--or what he thought he'd do--in this situation, it just wasn't something Lyra was up for.</p><p>"Well, anyway," she said after a moment, "I'll think about it, I guess. See you tomorrow."</p><p>Her phone rang while she was driving home that evening, just as she was stopped at a perpetually busy intersection--perfect timing. Lyra had driven home this way literally over a thousand times, and she always got held up at this intersection for at least a full four minutes. So she did what she'd obviously never do normally, and answered the call.</p><p>"Yeah, what's up?"</p><p>"Oh, uh, is that traffic I hear in the background?" Unsurprisingly, it was Tucker, sounding vaguely plaintive as always. "I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."</p><p>"No, you're fine as long as you make it quick."</p><p>"Alright, well... about our encounter the other day, er... that is, I hope you realize I meant what I said, and I do understand that you..."</p><p>"Just spit it out, Tellison," Lyra sighed, rolling her eyes. The other vehicles piled up around her beeped their frustrations, while she simply drummed her fingers against the steering wheel with one hand while holding her phone to her ear with the other.</p><p>"Well, ah, that is to say... you do still plan on giving me those jars, don't you?"</p><p>"Oh, is that all? Yeah, of course."</p><p>(It wasn't entirely a lie; she did plan on returning the contents of the jars to her cousin eventually. Only, with any luck, those organs would be out of the jars by then and in a shiny new human body. She just hadn't quite worked out how to present such a request to her agent yet. She'd probably have to bargain for it, all things considered...)</p><p>"Okay, great!" The relief in Tucker's voice rang through loud and clear, even when it was halfway drowned out by the cacophony of honking horns around her. "Will you be bringing them over today, or tomorrow, or...?"</p><p>"Uh... sometime soon," she promised.</p><p>(That was also, hopefully, not a lie. She wanted it to be true. She wanted to be able to help him as much as possible, as soon as possible.)</p><p>The volume of the irritable car horns around her suddenly increased. Startled by the noise, Lyra tuned back into the road ahead of her and realized that the traffic light was now green. <em>Huh, </em>she thought. <em>Already? That's weird...</em> Only a moment later, with a twinge of embarrassment, did she realize that staying at the studio a couple minutes later than usual meant her commute home would be a couple minutes behind schedule as well.</p><p>"Anyway, I've gotta go," she told him, shifting her phone to between her ear and shoulder so she could put her hands back on the steering wheel and drive onward. "And, hey... whatever happens, hang in there, okay? And remember that I love you."</p><p>Tucker was silent for a moment--a concerningly long moment. A pang of anxiety struck at Lyra as she drove across the intersection and turned onto the freeway.</p><p>"Tuck? You there?"</p><p>"Er, yes! Yes, I'm..." Tucker paused, letting out a sigh that was barely audible over the rumble of car tires on the road around her. "I think that was the first time in a long time that you said you love me."</p><p>The words settled in Lyra's chest like a boulder. However much she'd felt like an asshole when she ran out on him a few days prior, that feeling was increased tenfold now. "Oh, shit," she muttered. "Geez, I think you're right."</p><p>"Well, it's nothing to worry about," Tucker said way too quickly for him to have meant it. "I mean, most people don't even talk to their cousins."</p><p>"Now, c'mon..." Lyra sighed. "That's true, but, like, come on."</p><p>(Because, as they both knew all too well, they had always been more like siblings than a typical pair of cousins anyway. Tucker knew this as well as she did, so there was no need to say it out loud. It was pointless to compare anything about them and their relationship to how most people lived their lives.)</p><p>"I love you, too, of course," Tucker said matter-of-factly. "I suppose it's been a while since I told you that, either."</p><p>Lyra smiled. A warm feeling settled in her chest, offset by the rumble of traffic which seemed so distant in this moment. It was all just background noise, like static on a fuzzy old television screen playing a nostalgic movie. She wished this was a face-to-face conversation so she could hug her cousin just then. She could picture him, sitting at home, ridiculous clunky red landline in hand... what had he called that thing again? A touch tone...?</p><p>Her thoughts were abruptly cut short by the screeching of tires and and a horn blaring right in her ears.</p><p>Startled back into reality, Lyra stomped on the gas pedal a moment too late. She realized what was happening a split-second in advance, and it froze her in such tremendous existential horror that she wouldn't have been able to get out of the way even if she'd had all the time in the world. As it was, she had only a fraction of a second to think, <em>Fuck, shit, god damn it, this is just like that night five years ago, it's happening all over again--</em></p><p>And then.</p><p>Well.</p><p>It happened.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. I could dig up Alec Baldwin, but it wouldn't be the same</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was her twenty-seventh birthday.</p><p>The band wasn't exactly famous yet, but they'd performed enough gigs to land them a reputation as local celebrities, so half the town showed up to commemorate the event. The party was held at the recently constructed concert hall, where they'd played just a few days prior. The fact that it was in the same neighborhood as the old arcade didn't even cross Lyra's mind. She hadn't been to that place in ages, and she wouldn't go there again for several years yet.</p><p>They'd set up a karaoke machine so the gathered crowd could take turns going up onstage and performing, and a bar so that anyone would get drunk enough that singing karaoke seemed like a good idea. Currently, after her fourth glass of bright pink vodka punch, Lyra was beginning to warm up to the idea of treating her die-hard fans to a special performance. The alcohol buzzed through her body, bringing her a certain pleasantly familiar tingling numbness. It made her blood run even warmer than usual. Not great in terms of stamina. Sweat trickled down her back and her heart thudded from overexertion as she staggered off the dance floor, exhausted.</p><p>She collapsed against the wall and pressed her glass against her forehead to cool herself off. Standing next to her was Cindy Lafayette, one of her bandmates. Cindy had long wispy blonde hair, although Lyra could never tell whether it was natural or dyed, that hung in a curtain around her face. She was staring across the room intently. Lyra studied her bandmate, idly wondering what she was looking at, but not curious enough to ask her about it. Even after working with her for a little over a year, Lyra still felt like she barely knew Cindy.</p><p>And then up on stage was a guy she would maybe rather not know as well as she did. Diablo Sundberg was doing his best up there, but he must have been pretty damned drunk to be belting out the lyrics to "Chop Suey!" over the instrumentals for "Crocodile Rock".</p><p>
  <em>"Wake up! Grab a brush, and put a little makeup! Hide the scars to fade away the shakeup..."</em>
</p><p>Well, the crowd seemed to be enjoying it, at least. Lyra inadvertently caught Diablo's eye from across the room and he grinned and gave her a thumbs up without missing a beat of his performance.</p><p>
  <em>"Why'd you leave the keys upon the table? There you go create another fable!"</em>
</p><p>Lyra groaned and rolled her eyes. Suddenly she remembered why singing karaoke was never a good idea. That singing was so slurred and rough and off-key it was making her stomach churn... or maybe that was just the alcohol. Either way...</p><p>"Hey, so, I think I'm gonna head out," she told Cindy. "Do you see Neil around anywhere?"</p><p>"Huh?" Cindy blinked, evidently startled that Lyra was addressing her. Then, pointing into the crowd of partygoers: "Uh, yeah, he's right over there."</p><p>"Okay, cool."</p><p>
  <em>"You wanted to grab a brush and put a little makeup, you wanted to--"</em>
</p><p>Doing her best to tune out Diablo's incessant attempts at singing (seriously, there was a reason Lyra was the vocalist and he was on guitar) she followed Cindy's direction and headed over to where Neil was chatting with a group of fans. She tugged on his jacket sleeve to get his attention.</p><p>"Hey, uh, can you drive me home?" she asked. "I think I'm about done here."</p><p>"Oh, yeah, of course!"</p><p>
  <em>"--hide the scars to fade away the shakeup, you wanted to, why's you leave the keys upon the table?"</em>
</p><p>Neil waved goodbye to the people gathered around him and, looping his arm through Lyra's to steady her, led her out of the concert hall and into the comparitively cooler night air. It wasn't too shocking a change in temperature--it was the middle of summer, so the air was still thick and buzzing with heat just like Lyra was inside--but the fresh air, such as it was, was still a nice change. Lyra stopped to drink it in before letting her bandmate escort her to the passenger seat of his car.</p><p>
  <em>"You wanted to! There you go create another fable, you wanted to!"</em>
</p><p>The roads were fairly quiet that night. Neil didn't say much, or play any music. It seemed like he just wanted to get Lyra home as fast as possible, presumably so he could then get back to the party. The irony of a dweeb like him wanting to stay out longer than her wasn't lost on Lyra. <em>I mean, </em>she thought to herself with a stifled chuckle<em>, You </em>are<em> the party. And here you are turning in early.</em></p><p>"That's funny, right?" she said while they were driving across an overpass. She reached over to jostle Neil when he didn't immediately respond.</p><p>"Huh?" He looked over at her, brow crinkling in confusion. "What's funny?"</p><p>
  <em>"Oh, I don't think you trust... in my..."</em>
</p><p>"Y'know!" She jostled him again, more forcefully this time. The front of the car suddenly jerked to the side. In her current addled state, Lyra failed to recognize the link between these things. "That you're driving me home early, even though you're such a nerd and I'm--"</p><p>"Lyra!" Neil snapped, arms tensing beneath her hands. "Cut it out, or you're gonna make us--"</p><p>
  <em>"Self-righteous suicide..."</em>
</p><p>A sudden noise split the air--deep, loud, angry. It made Lyra's heart skip a beat. She looked up to see a truck barreling toward them.</p><p>
  <em>"I... cry..."</em>
</p><p>"Oh, shit," she whispered.</p><p>The truck slammed into Neil's car. Neil himself was lucky, in retrospect. The car was angled so that it didn't hit him head-on. Instead, it hit Lyra head-on.</p><p>
  <em>"When angels deserve to--"</em>
</p><p>As they careened over the edge of the overpass, the last sensation she was aware of was the taste of her own blood in her mouth.</p><hr/><p>"Hello? Lyra? Are you still there?"</p><p>No answer. Only ambient noise that Tucker couldn't identify. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his phone closer against his ear in desperate hope of being able to pick up some sound that would tip him off to where his cousin was, what was going on, whether she was okay...</p><p>Then suddenly a new set of noises crackled through the receiver: a loud scuffling sound, and someone talking. Not Lyra. Other people's voices, which Tucker didn't recognize--not her bandmates, then. A spike of dread jabbed through Tucker's heart even before he heard the tone with which one of the unfamiliar voices addressed him a moment later.</p><p>"Hello... are you a friend or relative of Ms. Deward?"</p><p>"Y-yes, I'm her cousin."</p><p>"I see."</p><p>A pause, and those voices conversing in muffled tones. Tucker thought he could hear police sirens somewhere in the background. Eyes widening, he clutched the cord of his phone so tightly it nearly snapped in half.</p><p>"Well, sir, I'm sorry to say that your cousin was in a traffic accident."</p><p>The person on the phone kept talking after that, but Tucker didn't hear any of it. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't hear anything but those words echoing like a cannon blast to his chest. Those words, and then the sirens, which seemed to be getting louder now, until his ears rang, and his head spun, and the sirens were all around him and he could visualize their flashing lights and--</p><p>The phone slipped from his grasp and dropped to the floor with a heavy thunk. There was a short burst of static, and the line went abruptly silent. Tucker didn't care. He barely even registered it, because that person's voice was still echoing in his head nonstop anyway. In the moment, he couldn't have cared less if he'd just accidentally broken the phone which had been his most prized possession for years on end. Who would care about something like that?</p><p>He didn't remember how he got to the site of the crash. Later, he would check his wallet and bank account and find that he hadn't spent any money on taxi fare, and stopping to wait for the bus at a time like this was out of the question. He must have run all the way there, then. It was all a blur in his head. Hell, he didn't even remember how he knew where to go. His feet just carried him there, or so it seemed.</p><p>All he knew was that he was standing there on the side of the road, and there were police cars swarming around like maggots on a corpse, and an ambulance too, and then a bunch of regular cars all piled up, people gathered around to gawk...</p><p>And there was a semitruck with a dented hood. The driver stood waving his arms around, apparently engrossed in an argument with some cops. He appeared uninjured.</p><p>And then there was Lyra's car.</p><p>Tucker fell to his knees. He was already winded from rushing over, but seeing the twisted wreck of his cousin's vehicle punched out every bit of air left in his lungs. It was tipped over on its back like an insect, minus the frantically wriggling legs that indicated continued life. The whole front of it was crumpled. It was ridiculous that something as sturdy as a car could be reduced to something like that so easily. The front window was shattered. Bits of broken glass were scattered all over the road.</p><p>Broken glass sprayed with blood spatter.</p><p>He didn't need to see her to know. There was no way. He had seen those drunk driving PSAs they would show teenagers back in high school. He had seen news stories. He had also seen the news story about Lyra being involved in a traffic accident not unlike this one several years ago, and yet she recovered just fine from that one, so one might expect Tucker to hope that--</p><p>But no. He, with all his conspiracy theories and urban legends and wholehearted belief in the occult, just knew. There was no way.</p><p>A sob wracked his body. He doubled over until he was facedown against the pavement, hands curled into trembling fists in front of him. <em>No... </em>After they had finally managed to repair their relationship. After she had promised to see him again soon. After he had already lost a loved one just a few short months ago. <em>No! </em>Tucker furiously shook his head, as though the space-time continuum would notice his distress and conveniently deign to rewind. <em>It's not fair!</em></p><p>Lyra's words from the last time he'd seen her face-to-face echoed in his head. <em>"There's no way to bring dead people back to life, Tuck. So please, just... just quit while you're ahead, before you get put on some kind of government watchlist."</em></p><p>"No!" He slammed his fists against the rough pavement, hard enough to puncture his skin. He didn't even register the pain in his hands. "You were wrong. It's possible!"</p><p>It had to be possible. Or else... or else he'd be all alone again.</p><p>Drawing in a shaky, tear-stained breath, he pushed himself to his feet and bolted through the crowd. He paid no attention to the offended gasps of the crowd of onlookers as he pushed them aside. None of those people knew Lyra. Maybe some of them felt like they did. Maybe they liked what they'd seen of her well enough to believe that she was their close personal friend. But they didn't actually know her. Or even if they did, they were still in his way.</p><p>There were two paramedics standing by the wreckage, talking in low, hushed tones. As he approached, Tucker vaguely recognized their voices as the ones he'd heard over the phone. The paramedics' heads snapped up at Tucker's approach. Before he could get close enough to talk to them, a cop grabbed him roughly around the waist and yanked him back.</p><p>"Hey!" the officer snapped. "Civilians need to keep their distance!"</p><p>"But I need to--"</p><p>"No buts," the cop growled. "Just stay out of the way."</p><p>The two paramedics were looking over at him now, frowns etched across their weathered faces. The taller one, whose graying hair indicated them as the senior, leaned over and whispered something to their companion, who nodded solemnly. The older paramedic walked over and gave the cop a warning look that prompted him to step away from Tucker with an indignant huff.</p><p>"Are you the one who was on the phone earlier?"</p><p>Tucker nodded, and the paramedic sighed.</p><p>"I see. And if I may ask, sir, what... what's your relationship with Ms. Deward?"</p><p>"I..."</p><p>He gulped, feeling a hot pressure like coals jammed down his throat. If he didn't already know on some instinctive level that Lyra hadn't survived the crash, the look in the paramedic's eyes confirmed it. It was the same expression as a parent trying to work out how to gently explain mortality to a young child.</p><p>"I need to see her," he blurted, lowering his head and squeezing his eyes shut as more tears dribbled down his face. "Please."</p><p>"...Well, sir..." And there it was, that hesitation, the trepidation of not knowing how to strike a balance between gentleness and truth. "I'm afraid to say that she..."</p><p>"She's already en route to a hospital."</p><p>A new voice cut in, as sharp and crisp as an immaculately pressed business suit. Blinking in surprise, Tucker stared up at the middle-aged woman who had suddenly appeared before him. The paramedic he'd just been talking to turned to gawk at the woman as well, jaw flexing like they were about to say something, but the woman cut them off with a strained smile that showed just enough teeth for it to look like a threat.</p><p>"The best doctors in the country are hard at work on her as we speak," the mysterious woman continued. "With any luck, she'll be back on her feet in time to perform her next concert."</p><p>"But--"</p><p>The woman raised a finger to her lips, and a shiver ran down Tucker's spine. He pressed his mouth firmly shut, somehow terrified that he'd meet some terrible fate if he spoke out of line. The paramedic glared at her, but they too were silent. Apparently satisfied, the woman gave a curt nod and then turned on her heel and walked away with a purposeful stride.</p><p>It took a few seconds of bafflement as the woman receded into the crowd for Tucker to realize what was happening. It was only as his gaze wandered across the scene once again and he noticed the news vans with reporters clustered around that he put it together. <em>God damn it. </em>He clenched his jaw, biting down on the inside of his bottom lip until the taste of copper bled into his mouth. Even knowing Lyra was a celebrity, he could still hardly believe it. The fucking nerve of people!</p><p>Oh, yes, he understood perfectly what was happening. Some higher-ups--her agent, maybe, or someone else associated with her band's publicity--were trying to cover up the nature of Lyra's death. They would say she was hospitalized in order to drum up suspense and keep the fans strung along, holding out hope for as long as they could get away with. Then a few weeks later they'd announce her death. Knowing news reporters, they'd probably report that she had some tragically poetic last words before she died... something about her fans, and how much they all meant to her. Slap that on all the magazines and billboards, and bob's your uncle.</p><p>A quiet, bitter laugh escaped Tucker's lips, which were pulled back in a tight grimace. He knew. As always, whatever bullshit the rest of the world was fooled into believing, he knew the awful truth. Lyra's last words were a casual "That's true, but, like, come on." Not the kind of thing you say thinking they're going to be the last words to come out of your mouth before you're turned into roadkill.</p><p>And he, Tucker T. Tellison, the unwanted relative, the conspiracy nut, was the last one to have heard Lyra's voice. He could probably make bank off of that, if he was a soulless shill.</p><hr/><p>Darkness. Void. Bright light. Whatever it was, it was already fading as quickly as a pleasant dream in the wake of an alarm clock. Groaning, Lyra opened her eyes to stare up at the pristine white ceiling and the sickly green hue of its less-than-pristine fluorescent lights.</p><p>"A truck again, Deward? Really?"</p><p>Her agent's voice rang out as sharp and authoritative and as plainly judgemental as always. Lyra cringed. She felt like she was going to be sick, even though she knew that wasn't possible for her. Her body was completely numb, and yet a dull ache seemed to permeate her very soul--assuming such a thing existed, and if so, that she still had one.</p><p>"Hey, it could've been worse," she muttered wryly in response to her agent's remark, despite not quite being lucid enough to get what the remark was even referring to. "At least it wasn't two trucks."</p><p>Her agent harrumphed. When Lyra tried to turn her head, she found that she couldn't get it to move--her muscles felt stiffer than a concrete board--but even without seeing it, she could picture her agent giving a disapproving shake of her head.</p><p>"This is your last shot at life, Deward. Three strikes and you're out."</p><p>"Well, geez..." What was she supposed to say to that, especially when she was so groggy? "Fuck."</p><p>"I'm serious!" Her agent's voice was even sharper now. Lyra flinched. "Year in and year out, the world loses countless beloved celebrities. And the agency has to decide who to devote its highly limited resources toward reviving. A world-famous rapper? A renowned television personality? An actor from a cult classic science fiction show? No, they chose you, of all the people in the world. Think of everyone whose chance at life is denied thanks to your existence!"</p><p>The queasy feeling stirring within Lyra grew in intensity as her agent lectured her. The cogs of her mind, rusted up by whatever miracle drugs were working their way through her system, began to spin. Memories from before she woke up began trickling back into her head, bit by bit. <em>That's right... I was driving... </em>She remembered the low, familiar vibration of her vehicle, its tires rumbling against the road, the blaring of horns around her, the flashing colours of traffic lights. The sleek black glass of her phone screen pressed against her ear. Tucker's voice, speaking to her. Then--</p><p>
  <em>Oh. Oh, god. Oh, no, no, no--</em>
</p><p>The floor--or rather, the operating table she was laying on--seemed to give way beneath her. Her jaw fell open in a scream that was either ear-piercing or completely silent; she couldn't tell. Other than that, she didn't move. Couldn't get herself to move. Images flashed before her eyes: her car crumpling, toppling over, splintering apart around her. Bits of glass and metal slicing through her flesh like she was an overripe piece of produce on a cutting board. She remembered screaming, as she was doing now. And just like now, she remembered being powerless to escape her fate.</p><p>Her hands twitched, morbidly desperate to scrabble at her face, feel herself up to see how many new scars she had. But her muscles were still too stiff with rigor mortis.</p><p><em>Breathe, </em>she told herself. <em>No reason to freak out</em><em>. You're alright now.</em></p><p>She pulled in a gulp of stagnant air, stained with a harsh chemical smell mixed with the overpowering stench of death, and immediately wanted to gag. She coughed and ran her teeth along her tongue as if to scrape away the godawful taste. Almost at once, panic and despair gave way to a burning humiliation. <em>Stupid. You've gone through this all before, remember?</em> She was in an underground facility that brought dead celebrities back to life using some kind of top-secret science that was probably super unethical. Of course the smell wasn't pleasant.</p><p>And then, to her own mortification, she circled back to panic and despair again. Because it sunk in just then: yes, she had died again. Yes, her body had been sliced and crushed and mangled. But it was repaired now, she was good as alive, and... and she was <em>back here.</em></p><p>Back in this place, where she had spent the first six months of her undeath. Away from her family and friends. Alone, but never actually getting a moment of privacy--always getting poked and prodded at by people in labcoats who kept hooking her up to tubes and making her do tedious excercises until eventually she could move without feeling like she was encased in wet cement, and asking her the same set of insipid little questions day in and day out. <em>"How are you feeling today?"</em> For fuck's sake, how did they think she felt? She was a freak of nature that went against all known laws of science!</p><p>Her stiff muscles grew tense. Every fibre of her being screamed for her to get up, move, run away. She couldn't. Her body twitched and quivered like an insect flipped over on its back. Or, perhaps more accurately, like postmortem spasms. Every little tic sent shockwaves of deep aching pain through her body. Her breath instinctively quickened and she was hit with that smell again, like a hospital compacted into putty and shoved up her nose. She had to force herself not to breathe. When she did, her brain sent an urgent signal to her lungs, because apparently what remained of her nervous system had never caught on to the fact that she was a zombie and still thought she needed air to stay "alive". So a tight feeling took hold of her chest, squeezing at her until she felt she would be crushed to death all over again, and she writhed around, with each movement only hurting her more. Lyra grimaced, tears pricking at her eyes. A low groan emitted from deep in her throat.</p><p>All the while, her agent stood silently by. Now, as Lyra squirmed and whined and hated herself for it all the while, she sighed in exasperation. There was a curt tapping noise--not a foot against the floor, but something that conveyed the same message. A pen against a clipboard, probably.</p><p>"If you're quite done with the theatrics, Ms. Deward, I want an explanation. How did you manage to go and get yourself killed the same way twice?"</p><p>"Nnngh..." Swallowing back her misery, Lyra forced herself to recall the moments leading up to her second death. (Could she even call it that? Did it count as death when the life preceding it was a sham?) "I... I was distracted. Tucker was--"</p><p>She broke off as the realization settled over her, accompanied by a heavy layer of guilt. <em>Oh, shit, that's right... Tucker.</em></p><p>She was still on the phone with him when it happened. For some reason, an image popped into her head of him <em>still </em>sitting there, voice hoarse, calling her name into the phone over and over again until he withered away from exhaustion. <em>Well, guess they did a good job bringing me back, </em>she thought with a scowl. <em>My subconscious is still a dumbass. </em>Of course Tucker wouldn't stay in the same position all that time. Knowing him, he'd probably rush to the scene of the accident to scope things out for himself... and if he didnt like what he found, he'd construct some elaborate theory about how it was all a hoax. Yeah, that'd be typical.</p><p>Her agent's no-nonsense voice cut through Lyra's thoughts.</p><p>"Who is Tucker?"</p><p>"Oh, uh, he's my cousin. He, uh, he phoned me while I was driving, and--"</p><p>"You were talking on the phone?" her agent demanded. "While driving?!"</p><p>"He's my cousin," she said again, as if that was a reasonable excuse--as Tucker had pointed out, most people didn’t even talk to their cousins. "I didn't mean to..."</p><p>"Of course you didn't <em>mean</em> to, Ms. Deward. But the fact is, what happened to you was your own fault. I would tell you to do better next time, but as I said before, there won't be a next time. Throw your life away again and we won't give it back."</p><p>"Got it," Lyra sighed, too worn out to offer any snappy comebacks. She already felt like shit; her agent didn’t have to rub it in.</p><p>She slumped against the thin mattress and let her eyelids flutter shut--half to fake being asleep so her agent would stop lecturing her, and half because there was a very real exhaustion permeating her bones. Sure enough, it wasn't long before she drifted off for real. When she sank into unconsciousness, there was one small mercy granted to her: it was a dreamless sleep. The nightmares would come later.</p><hr/><p>There wasn't a single millimetre of exposed corkboard material visible anymore. It was all blanketed with a jumbled jungle of assorted papers. Tucker had to fumble around to find certain post-it notes buried beneath his more recent additions to the board. When his fingers successfully closed around the little slip of neon orange paper, he withdrew it and crumpled the note in his hand.</p><p><em>Faked CGI actors-- actually real,</em> the note had proclaimed. He just hadn't believed it was possible for a person's image to be so thoroughly recreated years after their death. It seemed equally far-fetched as the far more compelling concept that there was an organization out there secretly restoring dead celebrities to life.</p><p>And yet. Over the course of three excruciating weeks, he had conducted exhaustive research into every instance of CGI actors and holographic singers he could find. He spent hours upon hours scrolling through every dark crevice of the internet, pouring through every book in every library in town and then some, scouring every academic journal that so much as mentioned two or more of his keywords (celebrity, famous, singer, death, dead, alive, life, resurrection, revival, undead, conspiracy, organization...) And after that, after all of that... what solid, concrete evidence had he come up with? Hell, what decently believable theorizing had he come up with, other than his own? Nothing! Absolutely nothing.</p><p>Tucker stepped back from the board with a groan. It was only when he took a step back that he really noticed just how overwhelming it all was. He'd been making that realization a lot lately, and it hit him harder each time with each passing day. But what could he do? He had to keep looking for the truth, didn't he? Because if he gave up now, then... then Lyra... he'd never... Tucker gulped back the lump rising in his throat. <em>No. Shut up,</em> he told himself. <em>Enough crying.</em></p><p>With the post-it note still crumpled in his fist, he took his glasses off and closed his eyes, then raised his hands to massage his temples. It wasn't enough to quiet the perpetual dull pounding in his head, but it eased just a bit of the tension off. After a few moments of forcing himself to breathe steadily in and out, he sighed and hopped down from his bed, turning his back on the conspiracy board.</p><p>"Gotta go for a walk," he muttered to himself. "Clear my head."</p><p>On his way out, he laid the "CGI actors" post-it down on his computer desk alongside various other papers indicating leads that seemed to be dead ends, but which he wasn't ready to fully abandon just yet. It was like putting the idea on the back burner. He hoped he would be able to circle back to it later, because it really did seem so promising in theory, but it just...</p><p>He shook his head. <em>Nope, I'm putting it out of my head. Going for a walk.</em></p><p>The weather was mild outside. That was such a cliched sentiment about March, but it was true: one day it was freezing, the next it was sunny and all the snow melted and it felt like spring was finally coming for real, then a blizzard. Today was one of the warm days. Not sunny, though--heavy gray clouds hung overhead, indicating rain later. Tucker would have brought an umbrella, but he didn't check the forecast, and if he went back up to his apartment now he doubted he'd be able to drag himself back out again. Anyway, it wasn't raining yet, and the temperature was a balmy six degrees celcius, so with his sweater vest over a long-sleeved shirt he was warm enough that he didn't expect to catch a chill.</p><p>He made sure to drink in the air as he walked along the sidewalk. He'd like to say there was a breeze in the air that carried with it the scent of promise or change or something like that, but truth be told, it was just kind of damp and tinged faintly with the typical urban smells of car fuel and wet pavement. It wasn't a distinctly bad smell or anything--this certainly wasn't New York or Chicago, for instance--but it wasn't exactly pastoral either. And combined with the aforementioned gray skies, it didn't do as much to lift his mood as he'd hoped. Still, it was nice to stretch his legs a little.</p><p>There were a few other people out walking around, too. A couple of them stopped to smile or dip their heads at Tucker as they passed by each other. The first time, this polite gesture of acknowledgement startled him so much that he forgot to return it, and then he felt bad about it for the rest of his walk until someone else nodded at him and he remembered to smile and nod back this time. One of the people he passed was walking a dog, which he stopped to say hello to when it sniffed at him, but the dog's owner kept on walking at a brisk pace without stopping to chat.</p><p>He was just turning around to head home when the rumble of an approaching motorcycle caught his ear. He turned his head to see a helmeted biker with a woman riding on the back of the seat pulling up next to him. Startled and confused, Tucker took a few apprehensive steps back. The biker slowed their motorcycle to a stop and then hopped off along with their passenger, who Tucker thought he recognized from somewhere. His confusion was quickly assuaged as the biker tugged their helmet off, revealing a now-familiar face.</p><p>"Hey there, Tucker," Diablo greeted him. For a moment, a friendly grin flashed across his face, but it was offset by a deep melancholy in his eyes.</p><p>"Hi," Tucker responded in a neutral tone, unsure of what to say. He nodded a greeting to the woman, who he now recognized as Cindy, more so through context clues than by actually remembering their previous meeting a few months ago.</p><p>"Uh, you..." Diablo's voice dropped a few decibels as he glanced up and down the sidewalk. "You've heard about Lyra, right?"</p><p>Tucker's throat constricted. He nodded, gulping. There was that pressure behind his eyes again, and for no good reason. <em>Come on, don't be pathetic, don't start crying just at the mention of her name, for god's sake...</em></p><p>"Yeah, it... it's been tough on all of us," Diablo sighed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked at a tuft of dead grass in a sidewalk crack. "Like, nobody ever really said it out loud, but... she's pretty much the de-facto leader of the band, y'know? What the hell are we supposed to do without her?"</p><p>At his side, Cindy looped an arm around Diablo's shoulders and, with a soft murmur, pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Tucker raised his eyebrows at that, but didn't comment. He wasn't invested enough in these people to be either terribly surprised or terribly relieved that they were an item. Good for them, he supposed. Diablo rested his head against Cindy's shoulder and murmured something to her in response; she nodded, lips curving into a sad smile.</p><p>"We're trying to stay hopeful, of course," she said. "We've been following news updates on her condition, and they say she's recovering, bit by bit."</p><p>Tucker flinched, jaw clenching. His hands involuntarily tightened into fists, just as they had a few minutes ago to crumple that abandoned post-it note that had never led him anywhere.</p><p>"Neil says he's confident she'll be okay," Cindy went on. "And he's probably right. Lyra is so strong--she seems like the kind of person who could survive anything." She paused, lips quirking into a frown, and lowered her head slightly. "Still, I can't help worrying, you know? Especially since the doctors still won't even let us see her..."</p><p>Cindy didn't seem to notice, but every word she spoke stabbed through Tucker like a knife. He drew in a short, sharp breath, trying to hold back the broiling emotions her words were stirring up. <em>That's right. They don't know the truth. </em>His jaw set into a scowl, concealed behind tightly pursed lips which began to quiver. <em>Only I know the truth. Me, and those paramedics, but they've probably been silenced by the media. </em>A sharp pang of pity struck at him as he looked at his cousin's--his <em>late</em> cousin's--colleagues. They had no idea. They thought she was still alive. They thought they would see her alive again one day.</p><p>And for while there, Tucker had really fooled himself into believing so, too.</p><p>Her words rang through his head once again. <em>There's no way to bring dead people back to life, Tuck. </em>He shuddered, tears springing up in his eyes yet again. This time, they stung at him harder than ever before, because this time he knew. He could finally see it, finally accept it. She was right.<em> So please, just quit while you're ahead.</em></p><p>"Tucker?" Diablo's inquisitive voice pulled Tucker back to attention. His head snapped up to meet the anxious, brow-furrowed gaze of Lyra's bandmate. "You okay, dude?"</p><p>"I--" He clenched his hands tighter. The image of his <em>stupid fucking conspiracy board </em>flashed through his mind, all cluttered up with <em>a bunch of useless bullshit that will never get me anywhere, no matter how long or how hard I try, because--</em></p><p>Because there's no way to bring a dead person back to life.</p><p>With a hollow feeling settling in his bones, Tucker stared Diablo dead in the eyes. Then he looked over at Cindy, who was still hovering next to her partner and clutching at him protectively. Looking at their wide-eyed expressions, concerned yet not completely despairing, brought a painful twist of guilt to his heart on top of the agonizing grief he felt already. But it was better they knew. Fooling oneself about these things for too long would only make it hurt worse in the long run. And these band members--they were decent people. They deserved the truth.</p><p>And yet. How could he tell them?</p><p>How could he make them believe that their beloved colleague was dead when all the news reporters were claiming otherwise? Just two days ago while on a trip to the store, he had seen a news article with the headline <em>"Acclaimed Singer Lyra Deward Still Recovering". </em>Right below the headline was a photo of Lyra laying in some kind of hospital bed, eyes closed as if asleep. When he saw that article--that photo, which was either an old photo being used deceitfully, or a photo of her fucking corpse--a burst of rage erupted within him. Mind going momentarily blank with anguish, he'd kicked the newspaper stand hard enough that the glass cracked. Luckily nobody was around to see him then. The muscles of his foot still twinged when he flexed it the wrong way. He couldn't just blurt it out: <em>"Lyra isn't really in the hospital. It's a hoax created by the media. She died at the time of the crash." </em>They would think it was some kind of sick joke, or they'd think he was delusional. They'd hate him.</p><p><em>That's never stopped you before,</em> he reminded himself. Ironically, the voice in his head just then sounded like Lyra's. He could picture her standing in front of him, hands on her hips, staring him down with an accusing sneer... <em>When did other people's opinions of you become more important than getting the truth out?</em></p><p>"Hey, c'mon, dude." Diablo's anxious voice cut through Tucker's stormy thoughts. "Hang in there. It's gonna be okay."</p><p>Coming back to attention, Tucker realized that both band members were touching him; Diablo was clutching him by the shoulders while Cindy had a gentle hand on his back, as if to hold him upright. Did he really look quite so unstable? Drawing in a sharp breath, Tucker raised a hand to wipe away the tears which had started trickling from his eyes, and forced his lips into a rough approximation of a smile. When he did so, Cindy retracted her hand and went back to clutching at Diablo instead, although the latter kept his hold on Tucker's shoulders a moment longer before hesitantly pulling away.</p><p>"I'll be fine," Tucker told them. He nodded to Cindy. "You're right. She'll be fine, I'm sure... it's just hard to keep from worrying."</p><p>"Yeah, exactly." Cindy paused a moment, then took something out of her shoulder bag: a miniature notebook and pen. She scribbled something down on one of the pages, tore it out, and handed it to Tucker. "Here. Since we're all kind of going through it right now, why not give us a call sometime if you ever need to talk to someone?"</p><p>"Ah..."</p><p>Tucker stared down at the little ragged-edged rectangle of lined paper in his hand. Dashed across it in blue cursive glitter pen were two phone numbers. There were no labels to clarify whose number was whose; perhaps at this point the pair considered themselves interchangeable. Emotion swelled heavy in his chest, and the tears flowing from his eyes suddenly grew thicker, like someone had just turned a tap on stronger. Nobody ever used to give him their number. Most people would go out of their way to avoid the possibility of him calling them. But these two...</p><p>His hands shook, fingers curling around the slip of paper. He had to grit his teeth and fight the instinct to crush it in his grip right then and there, like he had with that damned useless post-it note. They'd think it was rude. But he couldn't use this number. Their offer was far too generous for him to accept.</p><p>"Thank you," he said earnestly. "That... that means a lot to me. Now," he added, smile beginning to crumble at the foundation despite his best efforts to hold it in place, "I don't want to hold you up for too long. I'll see you around the neighbourhood, I hope."</p><p>Diablo nodded. He gave Tucker one last firm pat on the shoulder, then placed his helmet back on his head and moved to get back on the motorcycle. "Yeah, see ya around."</p><p>Cindy gave him a shy wave as they drove off, which he returned. He stood there and watched them recede into the distance, still believing they would see Lyra alive again one day, and he hated himself all the more for it. <em>Damn it.</em> His hands clenched along with his jaw, crumpling up the phone number. The tears wouldn't stop streaking down his face, which was flushed hot with scalding frustration. He was sure he looked ridiculous. Still, he stood there and kept what little composure he had until the motorcycle rounded a corner and put them out of each other's line of sight.</p><p>Only when his cousin's bandmates were gone, and he was all alone on the empty sidewalk, did he sink to his knees and start to bawl. It was a wretched sound even to his own ears. Like a wounded animal that needed to be put down. But he would be offered no such mercy. <em>Lyra... </em>Just to feel something, he grabbed at clumps of his hair and pulled until he could hear strands of it ripping from his scalp. <em>And the Polybius, too,</em> he realized, and the godawful hollow feeling sank deeper inside of him until he felt like he'd never been happy before in his life and was sure he never would be again.<em> I'm not getting either of them back.</em></p><p>In much the same way that natural disasters are formed from hot and cold winds striking each other the wrong way, a burning rage at the lying media clashed against a cold, bitter, seething resentment directed at himself. For letting the people he cared about die, for being too much of a coward to even tell the truth anymore... for ever having gotten his hopes up that he could get them back. He just did that over and over again, it seemed. Every time, he thought that maybe things would turn out for him against all odds. And every time, his hopes were met with a spiked boot to the face. No, he couldn't have a lasting relationship. No, he couldn't have a job. No, he couldn't have his older cousin, who had been there for him all his life. She, like every other good thing he'd ever had in life, was lost to him forever.</p><p>And if someone saw him sitting there on the sidewalk, sobbing and wailing and tearing his hair out, nobody said anything. Even if they did, Tucker was past the point of caring.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The more you grow up, less and less will show up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry that this chapter took a while to get done. That was in part because it's longer than usual, in part because I've been busy with various other things, and admittedly because I was bordering on losing interest in this project for a while. But I've regained my motivation now, and I can assure you that the next chapter after this won't take quite so long to complete.<br/>Also, I made an animatic, which you can watch here: https://youtu.be/YKP3e1oluvU<br/>Anyway, hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everything faded together after a while into a greenish-gray blur. Sometimes the fluorescent lights would flicker overhead. Whenever that happened, Lyra would close her eyes and wish that the facility would suddenly experience a power outage. Realistically, that wouldn't do anything to get her out of there quicker. She just wanted the assholes in lab coats who kept poking at her to have a bad day.</p><p>Eventually she was able to sit up on her own. A while after that, she made an attempt at standing. She was staying awake for longer periods of time by then, and it was making her restless as hell. Every fibre of her stupid undead body itched for her to get up and get the hell out of there. But she could barely manage to take two wobbling steps forward before her legs gave out and she fell flat on her face. The doctors, or scientists, or whatever they were helped her back up, and guided her back to the stainless steel cot that had been her place of residence for... for however long she'd been there.</p><p>"How long has it been, anyway?" she ventured to ask once. "Feels like forever."</p><p>The doctors exchanged a look. One of them, a young-ish and good-looking woman with striking eyes, gave a nervous chuckle. A sinking feeling settled in Lyra's chest; that kind of reaction couldn't be a good sign.</p><p>"Don't worry too much about that, Ms. Deward. Your agent is taking care of everything on the homefront."</p><p>"Oh, yeah?" She thought of her cousin, her bandmates, her fans, her parents. "What about Jaws? Who's feeding my cat?"</p><p>"It's all being taken care of," the doctor insisted, giving Lyra a gentle but firm pat on the shoulder, the way you might pat a dog that was edging toward misbehaviour. "Now, lie down and try to get some more rest."</p><p>The doctors never did answer her questions. They'd been cagey the last time she was in this facility, too, but this was getting ridiculous.</p><p>Oh, but the doctors expected <em>her</em> to answer all of <em>their</em> questions. Of course Lyra understood why. Jolting a human brain back to life couldn't be simple--otherwise, everyone would be doing it all the time. They had to make sure all her memories, knowledge, and probably even personality were still intact. It just got really fucking annoying after a while.</p><p>"Ms. Deward, I have a question," that young female doctor with the beautiful eyes said once, sitting in a metal chair next to Lyra's cot with a clipboard in her lap and a pen tucked behind her ear. "My colleagues tell me you were distracted while driving because you were on the phone with your cousin. Is that true?"</p><p>"Uh-huh."</p><p>"That's interesting. Most people--"</p><p>"Aren't that close to their cousins, yeah, I know." Lyra sighed, lifting a hand--with much less effort than it would have taken a couple weeks ago--to massage her temples. "Tucker and I are kind of a special case, I guess."</p><p>"Really?" Surprisingly, the doctor didn't reach for her clipboard, instead folding her hands in her lap and leaning forward with a look of genuine interest. "How so?"</p><p>"Uh, geez, where to begin..."</p><hr/><p>Skye and Rose Deward were a pair of walking clichés: identical twins who, despite having different personalities, were inseparable nonetheless. They shared a series of apartments throughout their twenties, and when Skye married Ernest Malick and settled down with him in a humble suburban house, Rose was quick to move in right down the street from them as soon as she could afford it. Of course, it was a little easier to earn money back in those days, although even back then it didn't exactly grow on trees. But before you knew it, Rose and her new boyfriend were seated comfortably in the upper-middle class.</p><p>Lyra was brought up never really questioning how her aunt had made so much money so fast. All she knew was that her aunt's house--where she must have spent nearly as much time as her own home, because her parents were so busy all the time and Skye always depended upon Rose for babysitting--was big and full of fancy things that were really pretty, but she wasn't allowed to touch most of it.</p><p>It was the kind of place you never really bother preserving in your memory, because you think you'll be going there all your life, and then one day years down the line you realize you can't remember the colour of the wallpaper. Red, maybe? Then again, perhaps not. Her aunt wasn't always as she seemed. But Lyra wouldn't know that for many years yet.</p><p>One of her earliest well-defined memories was from when she was around three years old. She was bent over a mud puddle, poking at a drowned worm and humming a little tune to herself, when she suddenly realized she was lonely. What exactly triggered that realization, she couldn't say. Maybe it was something she saw on TV. Maybe it was seeing a bigger family than hers walk by outside. Either way, she thought of her father always being at work, and her mother always busy with some crafts or running off to visit with friends, and she realized that if she picked this worm up and brought it inside then she wouldn't have anyone to show it to.</p><p>It was around that time when she started asking her parents to give her a younger sibling. They never exactly gave her a firm no, but looking back on it, they definitely never had any intention of having another kid. Maybe it was for medical reasons, or, more likely, they just figured one was all they could handle.</p><p>But, in a stroke of pure coincidence, it was around that time that her aunt Rose married her live-in partner of several years, Ken Tellison, and a few months later they had a baby together (born significantly less than nine months after the wedding, which in retrospect was probably why Lyra's grandparents didn't go to the wedding and stopped talking to her aunt and uncle after that). Lyra adored Tucker from the moment he was born. To her, it felt like he was <em>hers</em> in the same way that a particularly beloved doll was hers. It was a silly way of thinking about it, but when she already spent so much time with her aunt, her baby cousin may as well have been the sibling she had wanted. Although this obviously wasn't actually the case, it felt like his existence was a gift specifically to her.</p><p>Every day on her way to kindergarten, she would pass by her aunt's house, and Rose would sit out on the front porch with Tucker in her arms--and later, when he got a little bigger, in her lap--and raise his stubby little arm to make him "wave" at Lyra. Lyra would grin and return the wave with the level of exuberance that only a very young child can have. On days when they weren't sitting out on the porch, she would spend the whole rest of the day sick with worry that something bad had happened.</p><p>After school, she would drop by her aunt's place and play with the baby until her parents came to pick her up. She wouldn't really look after him, per se (she was way too young for that kind of responsibility) but she'd entertain him with toys, and cuddle him, and sing to him. Sometimes she'd read to him too, although she could barely read herself. Mostly she just looked at picture books and came up with her own stories, which she then relayed to her baby cousin. Tucker, for his part, was always delighted by Lyra's presence. She could have been reading the instruction manual for a lawnmower for all the difference it made in his comprehension of the words, but when she sat with him in her lap and talked, he listened with rapt attention.</p><p>*</p><p>For a few years, even as both of them learned and grew, they retained largely the same routine. Since Lyra's parents were usually busy, she'd go to her aunt's house after school. What her parents didn't know was that Rose and Ken didn't keep a particularly close eye on her and Tucker. In retrospect this was extremely troubling, but Lyra didn't see it as a problem at the time. She liked it when it was just her and Tucker.</p><p>Once he learned to walk and talk, he established himself as a well-behaved child, at least compared to how Lyra had been at that age. He didn't do too much running around and screaming. What he did do a lot of, which got on the adults' nerves to no end, was ask questions--and, when dissatisfied with the answers he got, try to figure things out for himself.</p><p>There was one time when he was three going on four that their families took them on a drive out to the countryside, and on the way they passed by a factory that was producing a bunch of white smoke. Tucker tapped on the window to get his parents' attention and pointed intently at the white puffs rising into the air from the building's smokestacks.</p><p>"'What's that?"</p><p>Ken turned his head to follow the direction of his son's pointing. "Oh, that? Those are, ah, clouds, kiddo."</p><p>"How're they making them?"</p><p>"With magic."</p><p>"Is there wizards in there?"</p><p>Ken made a noncommittal sound, presumably trying to keep his attention on the road. Meanwhile, his wife glared at him in the passenger's seat, no doubt worried about him filling their son's head with nonsense.</p><p>Tucker was fairly quiet for the rest of the drive, and throughout the rest of the day, too. It was only several days later, when the grown-ups weren't around and he was sprawled out on the living room floor doodling on the backs of Lyra's homework sheets, that he quietly voiced his opinion.</p><p>"I don't think it's wizards."</p><p>"Huh?" Lyra blinked, not understanding what he was referring to.</p><p>"The clouds," he explained, somehow managing to sound like a know-it-all despite only being in junior kindergarten. "I think it's not wizards. They've got a big machine."</p><p>He held up a piece of paper to show off what he'd been drawing: a big orangey-brown blob that vaguely resembled the shape of the building they'd seen. Lyra, who was old enough to know that he was right and that those clouds were being made by a factory (although she did still think of them as clouds, not as any sort of pollution) grinned and ruffled his hair.</p><p>"Wow, Tuck, you're really smart! I bet you're gonna be a master scientist one day."</p><p>Tucker beamed. When he exposed his row of pearly white teeth, Lyra noticed with a pang of alarm that they were caked with little flecks of colourful wax. She looked down at the crayons strewn around them and found that many of them looked kind of... chewed on.</p><p>"Hey, don't eat crayons," she scolded, wagging her finger at him. "They'll make you sick."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Because, um... what they're made of."</p><p>"Whazzat?"</p><p>"Uh..." Lyra scrunched up her face and scratched at her head. "I dunno. Just don't eat 'em. All the grown-ups say we're not supposed to."</p><p>(That wasn't the only time Tucker tried eating something he shouldn't have, either. Lyra had a box of plastic food that she'd use to play house with, but she learned not to play that game with her cousin after he nearly choked himself to death on a plastic chicken leg. He grew out of this as he got a bit older, of course, and Lyra's parents attested to her having been the exact same way when she was that little. Still, it was terrifying to realize just how easily she could lose someone or something so dear to her.)</p><p>*</p><p>Another time, when Tucker was four going on five years old and Lyra was eight, they were playing together in the backyard. It was raining, but Lyra was undeterred. She was out there in her raincoat, which was blue with pink patches, on her hands and knees digging for worms. It was for a school project. (Another thing that was a little messed up in retrospect: her teacher had instructed the students to bring in live bugs for a science class.) Tucker didn't like the rain very much, but he did like worms, and so he was right there with her, bundled up in a sweater since for some reason his parents had never bought him a raincoat.</p><p>"Did you know how many worms there are?"</p><p>Lyra glanced up from the patch of soil she was digging through to meet Tucker's gaze. He was squinting, as he often did back then. "No, how many are there?"</p><p>"Three... thousand!" Tucker spread his arms wide open, as though to indicate a vast field full of worms. "That's how many."</p><p>"Wow, that's a lot!" (He meant how many <em>types </em>of worm there are, presumably, but to Lyra's fourth-grade mind, there only being three thousand individual worms in the whole world seemed perfectly viable.) Then, not one to be outdone, she lifted her head and proclaimed, "I know a cool worm fact, too. If you cut 'em in half, it turns into two of them."</p><p>"Really?" Tucker's jaw dangled open in amazement. Lyra smirked, proud of herself for knowing something her precocious little cousin didn't. "That's so cool!"</p><p>The very next day, he marched up to her with his fists full of cut-up worms. She recoiled, nose wrinkling in disgust, as he held them out for her to look at.</p><p>"You lied," he said with a pout. "They didn't turn into two worms."</p><p>"Huh? But..." Lyra stared in dismay at the worms in Tucker's hands. Sure enough, only half of the worm pieces showed any signs of life--the halves that still had what she guessed must have been heads. "But I thought... I mean, I heard it somewhere..."</p><p>Tucker's frown deepened. Silly as the expression looked on his young face, something flashed in his eyes that gave Lyra a creeping sensation of unease. He looked down at the slimy mess in his hands and dumped them onto the ground, where the living halves of the worms wriggled their way back into the soil, and the headless halves lay unmoving.</p><p>"Sometimes people say things that aren't true," he muttered. "Don't believe everything you hear."</p><p>That was the first time Lyra remembered being frightened by something Tucker said. It would not, of cource, be the last time.</p><p>*</p><p>For reasons Lyra never understood, one of Tucker's favourite possessions was a red plastic phone toy. She just didn't see how he managed to have so much fun with that thing. All you could do with it was sit on the floor, press some buttons, and then pick up the phone and pretend to talk into it. Well, at least it was better than doing it with an actual phone, which both of them had gotten in trouble for plenty of times.</p><p>One day, Lyra got bored of making a bright purple barbie car race around in circles and decided to spice up the narrative a bit. She crashed the car into the corner of a bookshelf, making big explosion noises. Then she dropped the car, producing a loud clatter, right in front of where Tucker was busy with his phone.</p><p>Tucker let out a little yelp at the plastic car crashing down. He scrambled away, clutching the phone receiver to his chest protectively. Lyra crouched down next to him and poked him in the forehead.</p><p>"See, Tuck, the car crashed! Can you call 9-1-1?"</p><p>At once, Tucker's eyes lit up with excitement. He had just finished kindergarten and would be starting the first grade in a few weeks, and had been studying hard in advance.</p><p>"Ohh, yeah!! Lemme call an ambulance!"</p><p>Humming a little tune to himself under his breath, he pressed three buttons on his toy phone and then lifted it to his ear. However, Lyra couldn't help noticing that the numbers he pressed were not 9-1-1.</p><p>"Hey, what are you doing?" she demanded, jostling him. "That's the wrong numbers."</p><p>"Is it?" Tucker squinted down at the numbers, then hesitantly pushed a new set of buttons. Once again, it was the wrong combination. "Um... uh..."</p><p>Lyra frowned as she observed the flush of embarrassment and frustration creeping into her cousin's cheeks. It looked like he was on the verge of tears. It was right about then that she realized he'd always been kind of bad at seeing things close up. She'd always thought it was just because he was too little to know what things were, but he was in school now and knew his numbers by heart. Gulping down a pang of concern, Lyra gave him an awkward pat on the back and made a soft tongue-clucking sound in an attempt to soothe his frustration.</p><p>"Uh, it's okay, Tuck," she told him. Looking back at the discarded toy car, she picked it up and drove it around in a little circle. "Look, the car was okay after all, see? Just a false alarm."</p><p>Later, she pulled her aunt and uncle aside and confided that she thought Tucker might have problems with his vision. Rose got mad at her at first, but Ken admitted that Tucker's kindergarten teacher had told them the same thing. A few days later, Tucker had a shiny pair of round red glasses--from her perspective, as suddenly as if they'd manifested on his face overnight. Lyra thought they made him look silly, and she told him as much, but he just grinned and told her how much better he could see now.</p><p>"You got dots on your face," he said as an example, poking at a patch of freckles on Lyra's cheek. "Didja know that?"</p><p>"Yeah, 'course I knew that. So do you!"</p><p>She poked his cheek in turn, which was just as heavily peppered with freckles as her own, if not more so; he giggled and swatted her hand away. The freckles, and their complexions in general, were a feature they'd inherited from their mothers (although Skye and Rose usually wore a lot of makeup to cover the freckles up). Having twin mothers led to them getting mistaken for siblings a lot, and Lyra never bothered to correct people when they made that mistake. Sometimes she wished they <em>were</em> siblings, so they could live in the same house. Lyra's parents let her sleep over at her aunt and uncle's house sometimes, but only on weekends. It just wasn't the same.</p><p>*</p><p>Tucker's parents had enough money that they could have put him in a fancy school, but they ended up putting him in the same public elementary school as Lyra. In retrospect, Skye had probably talked Rose into the decision. It must have been painfully obvious to Lyra's parents that she was overly attached to her younger cousin. It wound up being a good decision, too, at least for Tucker's sake.</p><p>He did well in school right from the get-go, since he had his glasses and could see properly. Lyra was always impressed when he showed off what he was learning. She remembered struggling a lot more with addition and certain first-grade vocabulary words, but it all seemed to come naturally to him. What did not come naturally to Tucker, unfortunately, was making friends.</p><p>Lyra never really caught onto this fact herself, and looking back on it, she was ashamed at herself for not noticing. The school was divided up by age, with grades 1-3, 4-6, and 7-8 all being in different wings of the building and having their own areas to play in (or "hang out" in, for the older kids) at recess. But Lyra liked showing her cute little cousin off to her classmates, so she'd run down to the younger grades' play area, retrieve Tucker, and bring him over so her fellow fourth-graders could see him. Tucker never complained about this. In retrospect, that was because nobody his own age ever played with him at recess. But Lyra didn't think about that. It never occurred to her that she was more or less his only friend. And if that had occurred to her, it probably just would have made her proud of herself rather than sad for her cousin.</p><p>When he was partway through second grade, his parents started talking about putting him in a "gifted kids" program. Around that same time, Lyra’s parents--Skye a lot more so than Ernest, really--started putting more pressure on her to get better grades, too. Looking back on it, she figured it was yet another manifestation of Skye wanting every aspect of her life to be just like Rose’s. But of course that wouldn’t work, not when the two sisters had married two different men and therefore had two very different children.</p><p>Regardless, Lyra was never able to pull her marks up as much as her mother wanted. She didn't get <em>bad </em>grades; they were just... very average. She wished she could say art or music or even english was her best subject, as some indicator that she was always fated for a career in the arts, but she was always kind of bad at art classes even though she enjoyed them--she was one of those kids who'd draw an anime girl no matter what the assignment was--and she was pretty terrible at literary analysis even though she liked writing poems from time to time, and her school didn't have the money to host proper music classes. What passed for music classes was just a half hour of the teacher playing songs and trying to get the class to sing along. Lyra was one of very few kids who would actually sing like she was supposed to, but even then, it's not like she was a natural pro at it. Old recordings of herself singing always made her cringe.</p><p>And maybe the most cringeworthy old recording of herself--or at least it had been for the past few years, but maybe she'd feel differently if she looked at it again now--was that of her sixth grade talent show performance.</p><p>The talent shows at Lyra's school didn't have "winners", which was probably in order to discourage competition and ensure that everyone was just doing it for fun. That was nice... but the absence of winners was also indicative of the fact that none of the performances were ever very good. It was a bunch of grade school kids, after all. You couldn't expect them to be that talented. Oh, but Lyra thought for sure that she'd dazzle everyone so much that they'd unanimously agree she was the victor. Her strategy? Singing a song from the 1970s which most kids her age had never heard before in their lives.</p><p>"Do you know any songs about phones?" she asked her dad after seeing the poster in the hallway advertising auditions for the show.</p><p>"Phones?" Ernest glanced up from his newspaper and raised an eyebrow. "Sure, but why do you ask?"</p><p>"I wanna sing a duet with Tucker."</p><p>"Ah, I see. Well, how about 'Telephone Line' by ELO? I think I've got that one on CD somewhere, hang on, I'll play it for you..."</p><p>Looking back, it was hilarious that her dad didn't even question the fact that she, a preteen, would want to get up onstage and perform a duet with her eight-year-old cousin. She hadn't initially wanted to get Tucker involved, either, but none of her friends her own age were willing to get involved--they were a mix of reclusive art and science kids, and jocks with no appreciation for the arts--and despite Lyra's confidence in her abilities, she was still too embarrassed at the prospect of getting up onstage and performing <em>alone. </em>(Hell, she still kind of felt that way even as an adult. Even now, performing without her band made her feel way too exposed and vulnerable.)</p><p>Tucker would never have normally entered a talent show, either. Around that time he was getting very into books about UFOs and cryptids that he found at the school library. At the time, nobody saw any problem with that. Lyra even got a kick out of the spooky stories he'd relay about mysterious monster sightings. They reminded her of the <em>Goosebumps</em> series, which she found several volumes of at the school library. To her, it was all fiction, and entertaining fiction at that. To Tucker, it was something more... but Lyra wouldn't catch on to that for several years yet.</p><p>In any case, she managed to entice him into entering the talent show with her with the promise that he'd be able to use his old toy phone as a prop. He'd sit on stage and pretend to try to call someone while she sang. So they auditioned (well, "auditioned" in quotes; anyone could enter the talent show regardless of the quality of their act) and in the month or so leading up to the show, they practiced together at recess and after school until all of Lyra's friends and family must have been absolutely sick of hearing that damn song. Eventually, they were able to get through the whole song without Tucker breaking character or Lyra forgetting the words.</p><p>The day of the talent show itself, ironically, wasn't a memory that stuck in her head that much. It was the practice sessions she remembered better. In the recording her parents took, her voice cracked on most of the high notes and several kids in the audience laughed, but Tucker stayed composed throughout. If the staff had gone against tradition and selected a winner that year, they probably wouldn't have been it.</p><p>But Lyra could honestly say she had fun, getting up there and singing her heart out. She'd never forget the way her heart pounded, or the rush of adrenaline through her system. For weeks and months--hell, even years--after the fact, she'd occasionally catch herself humming "Telephone Line" under her breath, and whenever she would start humming it when Tucker was nearby, he'd join in.</p><p>*</p><p>Tucker had his tenth birthday party at the local arcade. He'd gone there with his parents many times before that, but Lyra never came along on those excursions. Video games were pretty low on the list of things she was interested in. By that point, she was more interested in boys than anything else, and from what mainstream media had taught her, the arcade wasn't one of the better places to find a boyfriend.</p><p>Still, once she was there, she had to admit it was pretty cool. There were a ton of games, all lit up with screens flashing psychedelic colours, and the carpet was black with all sorts of bright and funky patterns zagging and swirling here and there. Looking down at her sneakered feet made her feel like she was about to lose her balance, but looking up at the array of flashing screens around her was even more dizzying.</p><p>"C'mon, Ly, you've gotta try this one!" Tucker enthused, tugging on her sleeve. "You can play as bigfoot!"</p><p>"Why would I want to play as bigfoot?"</p><p>"Because he's cool!" Tucker bounced up and down on his heels as he spoke. Behind the smudged lenses of his glasses, his eyes contained a manic sheen which told her he'd already had enough cake for one day. "C'mon, c'mon, you've gotta try it!"</p><p>So Lyra went along and tried the game out. It was a fighting game where you could play as various different monsters. She decided to play as a pumpkin-headed ghost that reminded her of something she'd seen in a <em>Goosebumps</em> book (her enthusiasm for the series had dwindled, but she'd still pick up a volume from the library every now and then). Tucker, grinning from ear to ear, selected bigfoot as his fighter. The moment the match began, he started slamming every button on the console.</p><p>"Hey, woah," Lyra yelped when a compressed explosion sound effect rang out upon Tucker landing a hit. She instinctively ducked, and immediately felt like an idiot for doing so. Tucker laughed and started smacking his hands repeatedly against the button he'd just pressed, causing his fighter to repeat the same move over and over.</p><p>Lyra was only able to get a single hit in that first round until she was out of HP. But by the time the second round started, she was getting into the swing of things. Her adrenaline was pumping now. She dropped into a fighter's crouch, eyes narrowing, hand curling tight around the joystick. She waited until the perfect moment, and--</p><p>"Hah!" she exclaimed in a breathy laugh as her fighter landed a one-hit-KO on Tucker. "Who's the epic gamer now, huh?"</p><p>In the third and final round, they were a little more evenly matched. Lyra found herself subconsciously mimicking her fighter's movements--ducking, weaving, flinching whenever she took a hit. By the time she managed to land a finishing blow, her heart was pounding like crazy and the inside of her dress shirt was soaked with sweat. She leaned against the arcade machine to catch her breath and gave Tucker a weary thumbs up.</p><p>"Hey," she panted. "Good game."</p><p>Although Tucker's bottom lip wobbled in obvious distress, he gulped and gave her a stiff nod. Then the arcade machine whirred, and a short string of tickets emerged from one of its slots. Not wanting to see her little cousin depressed, Lyra tore off a couple of the tickets and handed them to him, along with a fond smile and a pat on the head.</p><p>Throughout the rest of that day, Lyra made two discoveries. One, she actually kind of liked hanging out at the arcade. Two, Tucker loved video games... but he wasn't great at them. From then on, when Tucker wanted to go to the arcade but his parents were too busy to take him, Lyra would accompany him. He would almost never be able to win anything himself, but Lyra could almost always rack up enough points to secure them some prize or another. There was this one rhythm game that she got particularly good at, to the point where she actually wound up on the leaderboards a couple times. One of the prizes she got from her winnings were a pair of friendship bracelets--horribly cheap plastic little things. She wore hers for most of her first year of high school, until she lost it on a field trip. Tucker wore his for a month and a half, until it broke from how much he fiddled with it.</p><p>*</p><p>Thinking about it, Tucker must have been kind of lonely once Lyra was in high school and they couldn't hang out during the school day anymore. As far as she knew, he never did make any real friends his own age. But he did start spending more time on the internet. There, as he explained to her one morning as they waited for their respective schoolbuses, he'd encountered all kinds of interesting people.</p><p>"Like this one guy, he says he saw an alien, and he's got pictures of it and everything," Tucker explained. "Isn't that amazing? There are ordinary people out there, all over the world, who've seen extraordinary things!"</p><p>"Uh, I dunno..." Lyra tilted her head and gave him a skeptical squint. "I'm pretty sure all that alien stuff is made up."</p><p>"No, it's real, honest! I'll go to the library and print off the photos and show them to you tomorrow, then you'll see!"</p><p>She shrugged and lifted an eyebrow in bemusement. "Yeah, sure, whatever you say."</p><p>But the next day, he really did come running up to her with a stack of printed-out photos of shadowy blobs that looked like they might possibly be aliens. It was obvious that he'd used the printer at the school library. The pictures were in black and white, grainy as hell, and all washed out with pale streaks that suggested a shortage of ink. Still, Tucker shoved those ""photos"" in her face with a smug grin, and so in order to humour him, Lyra laughed and told him that yeah, sure, those might be real photos of aliens. No guarantee, though.</p><p>But it didn't stop there. As he grew into a preteen and then a young teenager, he didn't leave the paranormal obsession behind as Lyra had assumed he would. Every other day, he had something new to say about ghosts or UFOs or cryptids. She'd catch him walking along with his nose buried in a book about ghost sightings, or scrolling through websites dedicated to cataloguing people's supposed encounters with the paranormal. He even watched some of those terrible ghost hunting shows on TV, which most people would only watch ironically to laugh at how bad they were.</p><p>This didn't happen all at once, of course. And all the while, Lyra had her own things to deal with--more and more things, in fact, as she progressed through high school. Most days she was overwhelmed by homework or relationship drama in her friend group or club activities (she was on the cross-country running team in the fall, mountain biking in the spring, and in the anime club for grades nine and ten before deciding it was too embarrassing in grade eleven). She even had a couple of boyfriends during that time, although never anything too serious. Basically, she had too much other stuff going on in her life to pay much attention to what her cousin was getting up to.</p><p>Then one summer day, he caught her completely off guard while they were walking home from one of their routine visits to the arcade.</p><p>"I think there's something going on in that backroom. Let's sneak in sometime and check it out."</p><p>"What?" Lyra stopped in her tracks to gawk at her cousin. <em>Is he joking?</em> He walked a few paces ahead of her and then stopped as well, wheeling around to face her with an intense stare that left no room for interpretation. "Oh my god, you're serious. Holy shit."</p><p>"Think about it--have you ever seen anybody go in or out of that room? No. And when I asked Mr. Arkwright about it, you should've seen the way he scowled! Oh, he regained composure quickly enough, told me there's nothing in there but old equipment..." Tucker sniffed disdainfully and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "But I can tell he's hiding something. And I've got to find out what it is."</p><p>"Tuck, you're talking about breaking and entering."</p><p>"To unearth the hidden truth!" He stamped his foot against the ground with a pout. Lyra wasn't sure whether to laugh at the contrast between his cute appearance and serious attitude, or be frightened. "So many people out there are keeping secrets. We need to--"</p><p>"No, no, no, no," Lyra interjected, waving her arms back and forth and shaking her head. "Dude, 'we' don't need to do anything. You--"</p><p>She bit her tongue, cutting herself off before she could say "you can if you want." No, she realized, she couldn't let Tucker go on a solo mission here. She had to stop him from doing it in the first place! A kid could get in all kinds of trouble doing something like that. But if he couldn't be deterred from his crazy ideas, then maybe...</p><p>"If both of us go, it puts us in twice as much danger," she told him, laying a hand on his shoulder and returning his determined stare. "I'll go alone, take some photos, and report back to you about what I find. Okay?"</p><p>Tucker frowned slightly, but after a moment, he slowly nodded. "Okay. But promise to take lots of photos and show them all to me."</p><p>So that left Lyra in a bit of a predicament. Obviously she wasn't actually going to break in to the arcade, and the fact that Tucker so easily believed that she would do such a thing for his sake was nearly as concerning as the fact that he wanted to do such a thing in the first place. After mulling it over for a while, she came up with a plan.</p><p>While Tucker was using the internet to immerse himself in conspiracy theory lore, Lyra was using it to forge new connections. Under the username XxLD16xX, she'd been posting in online discussion forums about bands and TV shows she enjoyed. On one such forum, she had recently befriended someone with the username magic_8_ball. They liked a lot of the same bands, and apparently he was around the same age as her, and even planned on attending the same art school as Lyra did after graduating. More pertinently, magic_8_ball was a self-proclaimed computer geek. He'd posted a few photo edits he'd made, and Lyra was blown away by his technical skill every time. If anyone knew how to edit together a convincing picture of Lyra investigating the arcade backroom, it would probably be him.</p><p>This was in the days before everyone had a cell phone with a thousand apps, so she used a disposable camera that she'd bought a couple years ago and never used. She took some pictures of herself posing outside of the arcade after dark, and then took some pictures of herself inside the arcade the next day, including one of the backroom door. Then she compiled those photos, some other photos of herself posing in ways that made it look like she was investigating things, and some photos she found online of small storage areas.</p><p>She emailed those photos to magic_8_ball, and sure enough, he was able to grant her request. Three days later, he emailed her a batch of doctored photos: Lyra walking inside the arcade at night; inside a backroom with the door closing behind her; crouching down to look inside a cardboard box. The editing was good enough that for a moment Lyra almost thought she really had broken into the arcade and forgotten about it somehow.</p><p>"See, Tuck?" Lyra sighed as she showed him the results of her online friend's editing prowess. Her weary countenance wasn't just an act, although the source of that weariness was different from what she was pretending. "Just a bunch of old equipment and stuff. Nothing exciting."</p><p>"Oh..." Tucker's shoulders slumped as he thumbed through the photos. Lyra had been careful to print them out looking as much like real photos as possible, and she'd even gotten them laminated. If Tucker had been an adult he'd have been able to see right through it, but at barely thirteen, she had him fooled. "Okay. Well, I still think Mr. Arkwright is hiding something, but--"</p><p>"Hey, c'mon," Lyra interjected, giving him a forceful clap on the shoulder. "Let's go get some ice cream, okay? It's a gorgeous day out, and summer only lasts a couple months, so..."</p><p>But she couldn't distract him from his theories forever. Her online friend warned her of this when she explained the situation to him, and she knew it all too well even without being told. The awareness of the growing distance between herself and her cousin sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach. It was easy to ignore most of the time. They still hung out <em>almost</em> as much as always (almost, such a loosely-defined word) and she still loved him as much as always, and she told herself that no matter what happened going forward, that would never change. But some days, that stone in her gut was jostled, and suddenly she could feel its roughness tearing her up inside.</p><p>*</p><p>On Tucker's first day of high school, he sat next to Lyra in the cafeteria at lunch. Lyra had already been sitting with the group of girls her age who she considered friends, although if you ever asked her a single quality that she particularly liked about any of them, the best she could come up with was that they invited her to their parties sometimes. The girls, many of whom were the very same classmates who had once cooed over Tucker when Lyra would show him off to them at recess, wrinkled their noses in obvious displeasure when he sat down next to them. Looking between her cousin and her classmates, a twisting sensation took hold of Lyra. She gulped, suddenly queasy.</p><p>Nobody said anything, and they ate in silence. Tucker was the first to finish his food, and when he did, he stared at Lyra for a few moments with an expression that she couldn't read. It looked... pleading, almost. But she couldn't tell what he was asking of her. Or if she did understand on some level, then it was a request she couldn't grant. She averted her gaze, the twisting sensation tightening, and Tucker got up and walked away at a brisk pace. They never ate lunch together in the cafeteria again after that. But they did keep sitting next to each other on the bus most days, just as they had when they were both going to elementary school. They didn't talk to each other much, but they sat there side-by-side, and the silence that stretched between them was usually more comfortable than awkward. Usually.</p><p>Lyra didn't end up staying with that friend group for much longer, either. There was some big dramatic upheaval which she could hardly remember as an adult... the specifics of it didn't matter, anyway. All she remembered was breaking down crying in the hallway between classes one day when the realization hit her that she had nobody to hang out with after school. The other kids just sort of walked around her, a few of them muttering amongst themselves: "Who's that?" "Is she crying?" But none of them stopped to ask if she was okay. None of them except for Tucker, who must have stumbled across her by accident while en route to his locker, because suddenly his arms were around her and squeezing her tight, and she remembered that she <em>did </em>have someone to hang out with, and she always would.</p><p>After that, they were closer again for a while. In the second semester, Tucker came to Lyra for help with homework several times, and each time she was ashamed to admit that she couldn't help him much. He wasn't getting gifted-kid-level grades anymore, but he had a sharp mind for memorization, whereas Lyra couldn't remember the quadratic formula if she kept a picture of it in a locket. Still, she managed to pass all her classes and graduate, not with flying colours, but any old colours were fine by her so long as it meant she didn't get held back.</p><p>"What college will you go to?" Tucker inquired as they were taking the bus home on the last day of classes.</p><p>Lyra shrugged, turning to gaze out the window. "I think I'm gonna go to art school. If my folks are okay with it."</p><p>"That'd be cool. I don't think my mom and dad would want me doing something like that, but I bet yours would let you." Tucker sat in silence for a moment, hands folded and fidgeting slightly in his lap, before speaking in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. "It's weird, isn't it? My parents?"</p><p>"What about them is weird?" she replied at a normal volume, arching an eyebrow.</p><p>Tucker raised a finger to his lips, which were pulled back in a grimace, in a <em>shh</em> gesture. He cast a furtive glance around the bus--nobody was listening; everyone was too wrapped up in their own stuff to pay attention to what some random dork was going on about--before leaning in to whisper to Lyra.</p><p>"How much money they have. I mean, it's weird, right? Your dad is always working hard at the office, but he only pulls in a fraction of what my mom makes at the bank."</p><p>"What are you getting at, Tuck?" Lyra asked, already dreading the answer.</p><p>"I think Mom is up to something. I was looking through my math notes to study for exams, see, and I found this problem about salaries. Well, it got me curious, so I looked up the average salary of an accountant, and--"</p><p>Lyra's brow furrowed as she pieced together what her cousin was saying. "Tucker Tellison, you are <em>not</em> accusing Aunt Rose of money laundering!"</p><p>"I don't know if it's money laundering, exactly," Tucker replied, not even seeming to notice Lyra's indignation. He pulled a piece of folded-up notebook paper out of his backpack, adjusted his glasses, and read off a list: "It could be smuggling, counterfeiting, illegal gambling, drug dealing--"</p><p>"It isn't any of those things," Lyra hissed. She snatched the paper from his hands and tore it into shreds before anyone could see. "Your parents make an honest living just like mine. So just drop it before you get in trouble!"</p><p>"Fine," Tucker muttered. He slumped in his seat with a pout that made him look like a ten-year-old getting told by an adult for the first time that bigfoot wasn't real, not like a high schooler who should know better by now.</p><p>*</p><p>At least one of Tucker's predictions proved correct: Lyra's parents allowed her to go to art school. Although they didn't have as much money to throw around as her aunt and uncle, they were on board with the idea of her becoming a famous artist one day. Plus, Skye had a pretty good supply of art supplies in her possession which she allowed Lyra to use with the caveat that she promise to be careful with them.</p><p>There were no art schools in her hometown, though, which meant living on campus in an unfamiliar city. It wasn't as big of an upheaval as it might have been for some people, as she was already in kind of a transitory period of her life and frankly didn't care to be cooped up in her parents' house for much longer, but obviously it took more than a little getting used to.</p><p>At least she had one new friend right out the gate. While she was wandering around the halls trying to find her way to class on her first day, she bumped into a guy--or, more accurately, he bumped into her. She turned to confront him, but he was already stammering out an apology and backing away, so she decided not to make a big deal out of it and move on. Then her gaze landed on the magic eight ball in the young man’s hands.</p><p>“Oh, hey,” she said with a nod to the device. “Just like Neil.”</p><p>The man’s brow crinkled in obvious confusion. “Sorry, what?”</p><p>“Uh, sorry,” she said, skin heating with embarrassment as she realized that he’d obviously have no idea what she meant. “I have an online friend called Neil who goes by the username ‘magic_8_ball’. So, uh, those things kinda reminds me of him, I guess.”</p><p>“Seriously?” He looked down at the ball in his hands, then back up at Lyra, wide-eyed. “My name’s Neil.”</p><p>“Wait, really?” she practically yelped. “Holy shit, dude, are <em>you</em> the guy I’ve been talking to?”</p><p>“Maybe... uh, what’s your handle?”</p><p>“x-x-L-D-16-x-x,” she sounded out phonetically. A few years after having first made that username, she was now somewhat embarrassed by it, but it was part of her online brand now, so she didn’t want to change it. As she rattled it off, recognition dawned in Neil’s eyes.</p><p>“Hey, you really are her, aren’t you? That’s awesome!” He clapped her on the arm with a lopsided grin. “Let’s hope we have some classes together, eh?”</p><p>She only ended up having one class with Neil that semester, but they made an effort to spend plenty of time together nonetheless. After that, it wasn't long before Lyra began to meet new people and gradually forge bonds with them. College life wasn't perfect, of course--no part of life ever was, as she'd come to understand better and better in the years ahead--but, well, it was sure better than high school. Still, she couldn't say she didn't miss home sometimes.</p><p>When she went home for winter break, she could have sworn that Tucker had grown half a foot taller since she'd seen him last. This brought her a pang of jealousy (he was nearly as tall as her now, and all things considered he might overtake her in height soon enough) mixed with a genuine sort of deep discomfort. She knew it was irrational to fear her little cousin growing up, but... it just didn't feel right. The more he grew, the less he resembled the sweet boy she cared so deeply for.</p><p>Still, he was in many ways still his old self. They even took a trip to the arcade together over the break, where he demonstrated that his gaming skills were improving bit by bit. She caught him staring once or twice at the door to the storage room, but he didn't bring it up verbally, which she took as a good sign. In fact, the only time the paranormal came up at all as a conversation topic over the break was when he recounted an urban legend he'd heard about an evil snowman, and that got such a laugh out of the whole family that one could only assume he was just joking and didn't seriously believe it. For those two weeks, it felt as though the Malik-Deward-Tellison family were all connected by an unbreakable bond.</p><p>*</p><p>The <em>next </em>time she came home, just a few short months later, she walked in on her parents arguing.</p><p>"This is ridiculous!" Ernest was shouting. "I work my ass off at the office every fucking day for this family, and all this time your sister has been hoarding illegal money--"</p><p>"Rose isn't hurting anyone," Skye interjected. She wasn't yelling, exactly, but her voice was shrill and plaintive, and there were tear tracks running down her flushed face. "She was just trying to support her family the same way you support us."</p><p>"But you knew!" Ernest slammed his fist against the wall, hard enough to produce an audible crack. Skye flinched, and from her position in the doorway, unseen by her parents, so did Lyra. "You knew all along, and you didn't say anything!"</p><p>"I was just--" Skye's voice hitched; she cleared her throat and tried again. "She trusted me with her secret. I didn't want to betray her. I had to be a good sister."</p><p>"What about being a good wife? What about being a good mother? What about being a good law-abiding citizen?!"</p><p>"You don't understand. You could never understand. You don't have a twin."</p><p>"Oh, don't give me that bullshit! You <em>know</em> what Rose is doing is wrong, and--"</p><p>At that point, Lyra had heard more than enough. She slowly backed away, wide-eyed, shaking her head as though to dislodge the newfound knowledge that had just been thrust into her mind like a blade. <em>No...</em> Her aunt really had been doing something illegal to acquire her wealth? And Skye had known about it all along? But that meant... <em>Tucker was right.</em></p><p>A chill ran down Lyra's spine. Pulse picking up, she turned and bolted down the road to her aunt's house, up the driveway, and onto the front porch. There was no answer when she pounded her fists against the door, so she tried the doorbell. Nothing. <em>Shit, shit, shit... this can't be happening, jesus fucking christ...</em></p><p>"They're not home."</p><p>The voice from behind her made Lyra jump. She turned to see Tucker standing in the driveway--which, she now noticed, was empty--and staring up at her. His expression was unreadable, in large part due to the way the sunlight glinted off his glasses to obscure his eyes.</p><p>"Geez, Tuck, you startled me," she muttered, pressing a hand over her hammering heart. "Uh, what's going on?"</p><p>"They're at the courthouse. Mom..." His voice quivered, and she realized with a sharp twinge of sympathy that his lip was wobbling. "Mom's in big trouble. She might go to prison."</p><p>"Aww, geez," Lyra groaned, running an anxious hand through her hair. "Guess it doesn't feel so great to be proven right, huh?"</p><p>The obvious answer to that rhetorical question came in the form of a sad little sniffle. Heart clenching, Lyra jumped down from the porch and ran to embrace her cousin.</p><p>"Shh, shh," she murmured, combing her fingers through his unruly hair as he dissolved into tears. "It'll be okay."</p><p>It wasn't okay, of course, not really. When someone was found to have spent the past sixteen years embezzling, they weren't going to get off with just a slap on the wrist. Rose was sentenced to seven years in prison. Skye refused to testify against her in court, but didn't end up receiving charges. In the end, Ernest spoke in Skye's defense, claiming that she hadn't known of her sister's actions. However, Skye and Ernest separated shortly after the trial. At least Lyra was already a legal adult living away from her parents, so she didn't have to worry about who'd end up with custody.</p><p>Tucker, though, <em>did</em> have to worry about being down a parent. Ken had never exactly been the breadwinner in his and Rose's relationship; in fact, Lyra was fairly certain that her uncle had never held a steady job. And Tucker was too bogged down by schoolwork to have a full-time job of his own.</p><p>After thinking it over for a bit, Lyra came to a decision. She took a year off from college, moved back in with her mom, and got a full-time job at the local record store. She split the money she made with the Tellisons, until eventually Ken found a steady job and was able to support his kid again. Once that drama had all settled down, she quit working at the record store--more reluctantly than she'd anticipated; having a job involving music had kind of grown on her--and went back to college.</p><p>Nowadays, Lyra didn't like to dwell much on that time period. There was only one memory from that dreary year which held an important place in her heart. One rainy evening, when she was over at Tucker's house trying to cook dinner for him because Ken was out at a late-night job interview, he let out a soft sigh and mumbled something she couldn't make out.</p><p>"What was that?" she asked, glancing up from the carrot she was chopping.</p><p>"I said..." Tucker hesitated. His physique, still delicate as ever even now that he was nearly grown, was visibly tense, with his shoulders hunched and his head down. "I said there's this guy in my art class. He asked me out."</p><p>"What?" Eyes widening, Lyra turned to stare in amazement at her cousin. "Holy shit, dude, you're kidding! For real?"</p><p>He stared at his shoes and didn't answer. Letting out a high-pitched laugh of disbelief, she broke into a grin and, after putting the knife down on the cutting board, tackled him with a fierce hug. He gasped and stumbled back.</p><p>"I can't believe it," she enthused, squeezing him tighter than she had in years. "You're growing up so fast, Tuck!"</p><p>"Wha-- I--" Tucker stammered, squirming in her grip. She let go and he stepped back, adjusting his glasses and staring wide-eyed up at her. "You... you're not mad? That it's a guy, I mean?"</p><p>"Huh? Oh, of course not! It's the twenty-first century, you know..." Then she paused, biting her lip. Upon second thought, she realized with a pang of dismay, she'd better not make it sound like <em>nobody</em> had a problem with things like that anymore. "But, uh, let's keep it a secret from your dad for now, okay? Wait 'till you've got a job and a place of your own, then you can tell him."</p><p>Tucker nodded, lips pursed. Clearly he understood the nature of Lyra's concern--well, of course; he must have been grappling with those same worries for however long it had been since he'd realized. A severe discomfort settled in her gut at the thought of her cousin, already such a social outcast, having a whole new reason to fear rejection.</p><p>In an attempt to brighten his spirits, and admittedly her own, Lyra laid a hand on his shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile. "Hey... it'll be okay, Tuck. If anyone tries to do anything bad to you, I'll kick their ass. Okay?"</p><p>Tucker's lips twitched into a small smile. "Okay."</p><p>He leaned in and hugged her. Lyra closed her eyes, letting the familiar sensation of his chin nestling into the crook of her shoulder ease her restless mix of excitement and anxiety for her cousin. She smoothed his hair down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. <em>It'll be okay,</em> she told herself. <em>I'll protect him, like always.</em></p><p>*</p><p>Of course, she couldn't <em>really</em> promise to always protect him. The next year, she was back at college and out of his immediate reach. Nothing bad happened to him in that stretch of time, or at least nothing he ever told her about, but she frequently bolted awake from nightmares of coming home to find him beaten to a pulp and thrown out on the street.</p><p>One night near the end of her second year of college, after waking from such a nightmare, Lyra couldn't manage to quell the pounding of her heart no matter how many reassurances of "It's just a dream" she muttered to herself. Her whole body churned with anxiety, and probably only a fraction of it was really directed toward her cousin's wellbeing back home, but that was the form her anxieties tended to manifest in, and the mental image of Tucker's face being bruised and bloodied was burned into her eyelids from a lifetime's worth of nightmares and close calls and, indeed, actually seeing him get hurt on a good many occasions over the years.</p><p>So she did the only thing she could think of to lighten the weight pressing down on her head: she climbed out of bed, grabbed a knife from the little kitchenette area she had set up in the corner of her dorm, and started hacking off chunks of hair.</p><p>Logically, there was no reason for that to help. She wasn't thinking logically. It was two in the morning, and finals were next week, and she was lost in a haze of panic. With trembling hands, she gripped large clumps of her tangled dark hair and lopped them off. And, amazingly, it actually helped, kind of. Gradually, as more and more of her previously just-over-shoulder-length hair found its way to the floor, she was able to breathe again.</p><p>She did this all in the dark, without looking at herself in the mirror. When she was done, she staggered back over to her bed, flopped down, and immediately passed out. In the morning, she woke to find her dorm room positively littered with discarded clumps of hair. Upon combing her fingers through what remained on her head, she grimaced at the rough, uneven feeling of it.</p><p>"Fuuuck," she groaned.</p><p>When Neil saw her in class that day, his eyebrows shot up and he audibly stifled a laugh. "Geez, what did you <em>do</em> to yourself?"</p><p>(That was the same reaction her family would have when they saw her new haircut a couple weeks later, but their inflections would be less amused and more disdainful. And that was <em>after</em> a couple of her college friends helped her fix it up so the length was more uniform.)</p><p>In the following weeks, though, she found that she actually liked having shorter hair. She wound up sticking with that style, despite her family--Tucker included--obviously not thinking much of it. During her third and fourth years, she even dyed it on a whim several times--blue, pink, purple, red, orange, and purple again. It wasn't a big deal from her perspective; it was just something to do to keep her sane while academic pressures squeezed tighter around her. The same could be said for the eyebrow piercing she got at the start of her fourth year. It didn't <em>mean </em>anything, not really. At least she didn't think so. Even now, looking back on it years later, she still couldn't see why her family had such a big problem with it.</p><p>She wasn't able to attend Tucker's high school graduation, but she saved up and bought him a graduation present via the magic of online shopping: a vintage but fully functional telephone, shiny and red just like the one he used to play with as a kid. She only hoped he wouldn't think it was too corny and immediately throw it out; it was an expensive enough purchase to warrant actually being used every now and then. He wound up going to the local college--the one that Lyra had gone out of her way <em>not</em> to attend. Apparently he planned on majoring in history and minoring in biology. She hoped that learning real facts would finally dispel his lingering beliefs in the occult, but looking back on it, she was pretty sure he chose those fields specifically to gather evidence for his own unscientific theories. And, indeed, his theorizing was in full blow at this point.</p><p>"People say that dogs can sense ghosts," he said less than two minutes into a phone call which was the first time she'd heard from him in two months. "What if that's why they were domesticated in the first place? Wolves have a connection to the occult, I'm sure of it!"</p><p>"Wow, uh, that's cool," replied Lyra, who at that moment had a 5000-word essay due by the end of the week and a project proposal due by the end of the day, neither of which she had started on yet. "So, how's your dad?"</p><p>"I don't know. He's seemed kind of angry lately." Tucker paused, and she heard the sounds of paper rustling from the other end of the line. "...Anyway, I think this might relate to reports of feral children being raised by wolves. What if the spirits of the children's parents or other relatives are communicating with the wolves and telling them..."</p><p><em>Kind of angry, huh? </em>Lyra thought of her uncle, who had never been one of her favourite relatives at the best of times, and ran her hand down her face with a barely concealed groan. <em>I guess hearing about conspiracy stuff all the time is pissing him off. Go figure.</em></p><p>*</p><p>When she neared her college graduation, a multitude of thoughts gathered over her head, like storm clouds that stayed in place for days and weeks on end without ever breaking into rain. One night, when she and Neil were at the on-campus bar drinking their worries away, she took a long sip of beer and surveyed the pack of fellow students bustling around them with a weary sigh.</p><p>"Think we're ever gonna see each other again once we graduate?"</p><p>"Huh?"</p><p>Neil blinked at her as if he didn't understand. His glass of hard lemonade was still almost completely full, so he couldn't possibly have been drunk enough yet to be confused by such a simple question. Lyra gave him a friendly punch in the arm and repeated the question.</p><p>"Sure we will," he said, flashing her his signature crooked smile. "We're pretty good friends, aren't we?"</p><p>"Sure, but I haven't kept in touch with any of my old friends from high school," Lyra muttered. She swished her can of beer around as she spoke, wishing it was in a glass so she could stare dramatically into it. "May as well have never even known 'em."</p><p>"Well, okay, but do you actually like any of those people? I mean... do you <em>want</em> to see any of them again?"</p><p>Neil posed the question so casually, even accompanied by a little shrug, but it stopped Lyra in her tracks completely. She set her drink down, head suddenly spinning. <em>Do I </em>want <em>to see them? Fuck, I don't know. </em>She'd never thought of it in terms of wanting before. Either someone was in her life or they weren't, and there wasn't much she could do about it either way.</p><p>"I guess..." she said after a long moment of slightly drunken reflection, "I don't."</p><p>"See? If you still want me around after graduation, of course I'll stick around!" Neil clapped her on the back, then winked and gave her a thumbs-up. Lyra stifled a giggle. Then, with a soft smile, he continued: "I think if you really care about someone, you'll always find a way to see them again."</p><p>Lyra arched an eyebrow. "That's a nice thought, but what if the person you care about is dead? Not gonna see 'em again then."</p><p>"Woah, hold on--" Neil held up his hands. "I thought we were talking about college graduation. Where'd death come from?"</p><p>"Comes from when your heart stops beating," Lyra quipped, because she'd already had enough to drink that night to think she was really fucking funny.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," Neil muttered with a roll of his eyes. "Point is, neither of us are dying any time soon, so I don't see why we can't keep in touch."</p><p>"Eh, maybe," she said with a shrug. "We'll see." Then she took another sip of her beer and tried not to think too much about the future.</p><p>*</p><p>After college, Lyra got a full-time job as a waitress at a roadside diner a few miles outside of her hometown. The owners of the establishment gave her room and board for a modest price, which was her main reason for taking that job specifically. It was a good position for her: close enough to home that she could be there for her family if something happened, but far enough away that she didn't <em>have</em> to be there for them if she didn't want to.</p><p>Her parents called her on a fairly regular basis, asking how she was doing and encouraging her to "start considering further into the future". Skye, in particular, couldn't go two weeks without asking whether Lyra had a boyfriend yet. Tucker called her twice as often as either of her parents, but he didn't ask how Lyra was doing so much as talk about himself and his theories.</p><p>"So, I was talking to Vic about my alien theory," he said partway through one such phone call, "And he said it sounds--"</p><p>"Wait, hang on," Lyra interjected. "Who's Vic?"</p><p>"Oh, he's my boyfriend. So he said it sounds just like--"</p><p>"You have a new boyfriend? What about that guy you were seeing back in high school?"</p><p>"That guy? We broke up ages ago, what are you talking about--I mean, you're not still seeing <em>your</em> high school boyfriend, are you?"</p><p>"I guess not..."</p><p>She wracked her brain for a previous conversation where Tucker had mentioned breaking up with his high school boyfriend, and came up empty. She definitely didn't remember hearing him ever mention this Vic guy before. So either there were major events happening in his life that he didn't bother telling her about, or she hadn't been paying attention when he told her. A heavy feeling of discomfort settled in her gut, not for the first time during one of these phone calls. She knew she and Tucker both had a lot of stuff going on, so maybe they didn't have all the time in the world to keep up with each other anymore, but still... this felt wrong.</p><p>She stepped back from her own thoughts and realized that Tucker had been talking for the past several seconds while she was recollecting. Talking about aliens, to be precise. Lyra sighed and resisted the urge to hang up.</p><p>*</p><p>Almost a year into working at the diner, Lyra got an unexpected visitor. She was wiping down tables after hours when there was a knock on the door. Without even looking up, she gave the customary non-aggressive shout of "Sorry, we're closed!" The knock repeated, accompanied by a muffled voice that she couldn't hear through the door... and then a thud.</p><p>"What the fuck?" she muttered to herself, out of morbid curiosity moreso than concern.</p><p>She gave the table she was cleaning one last wipe and then went over to see what was happening outside. It was too dark out to see much of anything, but from the dim lighting of the diner, she could just barely make out what looked like a collapsed figure lying on the ground.</p><p>Lyra's heart skipped several beats in a row. She sucked in a sharp breath and slowly backed away, mind racing. <em>Shit. There's a dead guy on our doorstep. What am I gonna do? Do I call the police? </em>Then the collapsed figure let out a groan, which simultaneously severed the largest knot of tension in her--it wasn't a dead guy, she didn't have to worry about being faced with murder charges--and turned her blood to ice, because she <em>knew </em>the inflection of that groan. And sure enough, when she grabbed him by the collar and dragged him inside, the low lighting was more than enough to illuminate a jarringly familiar face. Looking him over in the light only made her shudder harder.</p><p>"Neil?" she hissed, trying to keep her voice down in case someone overheard, but unable to contain her confusion and anxiety. "What the hell happened to you, dude?!"</p><p>She'd seen him several times since their college graduation, and all their encounters had been totally normal. He'd talked about the upgrades he was giving to his magic eight ball, and about the failed music career of a girl he knew, and about the research he'd been doing on the prehistoric era. He hadn't mentioned getting up to anything that would lead to him collapsing at her doorstep, with his clothes tattered and skin covered in burns. His magic eight ball was still clutched tightly in his hand. The screen was flashing, which Lyra was too distraught to register as something that magic eight balls didn't normally do.</p><p>Neil groaned and raised his head. His glasses were knocked askew; Lyra instinctively reached out to straighten them before realizing that the lenses were shattered to hell and back. In that state, he'd probably be able to see more clearly without the glasses... assuming he could see clearly at all. Lyra slipped his glasses off and set them aside, then made a soft tongue-clucking noise to get his attention and waved a hand in front of his face.</p><p>"Hey, Neil. Can you see me?"</p><p>"Mmmn...." He grimaced, rubbed at his eyes, then moved to sit up. Lyra helped ease him into a sitting position with his back supported by a wall. "Is... is it over? Did the meteorite hit?"</p><p>"Meteorite?" Lyra almost laughed out of sheer incredulity. "What the fuck are you talking about, dude?"</p><p>He looked around, as if taking in his surroundings. Gradually, something that looked like recognition dawned in his bleary eyes. He sighed, shoulders slumping.</p><p>"Oh, that's right. I came back here." He looked down at the eight ball in his hands. The screen had stopped flashing and was now completely black. It was cracked, too, which wasn't too surprising considering the state the rest of him was in. "I guess it managed to bring me back just in time..."</p><p>"Listen, dude, I think you might, uh, might have something, uh--" Lyra gestured at her head and made a little twirling motion. "I'm gonna call an ambulance, okay? Just--just lay there and rest."</p><p>Neil was in the hospital for about half a month, during which Lyra was so sick with worry that she kept screwing up at her job. It was little things, mostly--getting orders wrong, spilling someone's drink, customers having to snap their fingers in her face (some more rudely than others) to ask if she was listening because it seemed like she'd just zoned out halfway through an exchange. But after a while, it all piled up. One night, after she was so consumed with thoughts of her friend's mysterious near-death experience that she accidentally served a customer something they were allergic to, her manager pulled her aside and gently but firmly told her to take some time off. A lot of time off, actually. In fact, one might say she got fired.</p><p>So that left her out of a job for a while. With nowhere else to go, she moved back in with her dad, who had kept their old house when her parents split up because it was legally owned under his name. He offered to let her sleep in her old room, but she elected to sleep in the basement, and generally did everything she could to stay out of his way.</p><p>Tucker called her during that time, wanting to talk about aliens again. Or maybe bigfoot. Or his theory that bigfoot was secretly an alien. <em>Whatever. </em>She was past the point of caring.</p><p>"There are actual things going on, okay? Serious things!" she snapped. "Pull your head out of your ass and just--just think about the real world for a change!"</p><p>"But I am thinking about the real world! It's all true, and if you'd just listen to--"</p><p>She hung up on him, and didn't pick up when he tried to call her back. Later--much later than she'd like to admit--she would realize she was being unfair. Tucker had no way of knowing all the serious anxieties that were weighing on Lyra's mind, because... well... she hadn't told him. That probably wasn't the first time she ever hung up on him in the middle of a call, but it was the one that stuck in her mind the most now.</p><p>*</p><p>When Neil was released from the hospital, the first thing he said to her was, "We should start a band."</p><p>At first she thought he was crazy. This impression only deepened when he explained his reasoning--some ludicrous story about travelling back in time and meeting a bunch of dinosaurs. She actually had to call the hospital to confirm that he definitely wasn't showing any signs of brain damage. But apparently he was perfectly sound, and dead serious.</p><p>"C'mon, it'll be fun," he told her. "It can just be a side hobby; we don't have to make a career out of it or anything."</p><p>With the prospect framed in that way, Lyra reluctantly accepted. She could use the money anyway; what did she have to lose at that point? So, in an act that almost drained her currently stagnant bank account entirely, she bought a microphone and an electric guitar. Neil, despite never having played an instrument before, seemed to suddenly have an interest in guitars and keyboards; apparently his friend Cindy had a selection of instruments and other music-related equipment that she wasn't using anymore, so he borrowed a bunch of that stuff from her, and they were more or less ready to begin their career (or non-career, as they thought of it at the time).</p><p>They started off as buskers, playing on street corners to earn a few bucks here and there. When her dad found out what she was spending (read: wasting, from his perspective) her time and money on, he basically kicked Lyra out of the house, which was fine by her. She hated staying in that place anyway. She and Neil roomed together for a while in a small two-bedroom apartment on the other side of town, and they got mistaken for a couple a lot during that time, but she really didn't care as long as she didn't have to put up with being in the immediate vicinity of her family. They still called her, of course, and she tried to be civil most of the time, but every conversation with her parents drove her further up the wall, and with her cousin it was even worse.</p><p>Still, when they managed to book their first gig at an actual establishment--just a local bar, nothing fancy, but still--of course she called them all up to tell them about it. Ernest gave a grumbly non-answer that sounded like a no; Skye said she would think about it in a tone of voice that made it obvious exactly what she thought about it; but Tucker promised to be there, and despite how weird the vibe had been between them recently, this brought her a great sense of reassurance. It was like a confirmation that she <em>wasn't </em>wasting time on this whole music thing, regardless of what her parents thought.</p><p>Even though it was just a small show, she dressed up a bit for it--a big pair of gold hoop earrings, a hot pink pleated miniskirt, knee-high boots, and a dark purple faux-leather jacket with studded shoulders. Her hair, which she had styled into an undercut and was currently dyed in streaks of blue, purple, and pink, was pinned back with a glittery black flower barrette to keep it from hanging in her eyes; she didn't want to obscure the bright red eye shadow and the rest of her makeup that she spent nearly twenty minutes applying. Neil actually laughed when he saw her--he was just wearing a regular tan button-up shirt and faded bluejeans--but before she could take offence, he grinned and clapped her on the shoulder and told her she "looked fucking fantastic".</p><p>And she felt fucking fantastic, too, when they played that night. It was a modest crowd, but they garnered a few cheers here and there, and--most importantly--she was actually up on a stage, for the first time since she was a little kid. That alone filled her with an electric thrill, which she channeled into playing and singing with all her might.</p><p>After the show, several people in the bar clapped. But when she scanned the crowd for Tucker, she spotted him sitting toward the back of the establishment, alone at a booth and not clapping. In fact, he wasn't even looking at her. When she gathered up her equipment and came down from the stage, he got up and left without a word.</p><p>"Hey!" At a brisk pace, Lyra ran out after her cousin and followed him down the sidewalk. It was easy to catch up to him; he never was much of an athlete. She clamped a hand down on his shoulder, and he turned around to face her, but she couldn't read his expression. "What gives, dude? Not gonna clap for me?"</p><p>"W-well, you don't give my interests the time of day," he sniffed in a way that she thought was supposed to come off as haughty, but the little warble in his voice suggested he was trying not to cry. "So why should I do the same for you?"</p><p>"Your interests? You mean conspiracy theories?" Lyra scowled and shook her head. "Music is a real thing. People can make careers out of it. Conspiracy theories are... I'm sorry, dude, but they're bullshit. You can't--it's just not the same thing."</p><p>He jerked away from her touch, glasses flashing. "I can't believe this. I thought you'd understand."</p><p>"There's nothing to understand! It's just not true, dude!"</p><p>"It is true! It's all true!" Tucker stomped his foot on the ground, and Lyra was too furious to laugh at how childish he appeared just then. "And stop calling me 'dude'! I'm not some dude, I'm your family!"</p><p>"Yeah, well," Lyra shot back before she could stop herself, "I hate my family!"</p><p>She regretted those words as soon as she said them. She would apologize later, profusely, over the phone--over voicemail, to be specific. She had no idea whether he ever heard her apology, or if he deleted her messages without listening to them, just as she deleted so many of his pointless rambling voicemails lately. Either way, they stormed off on each other, and Tucker didn't come to any more of her shows after that.</p><p>*</p><p>He still kept calling her, though. Mainly when he was obviously upset about something--his boyfriend breaking up with him, a radio show host not returning his calls, his dad kicking him out of the house after finding a stash of magazines under his bed. That last one got Lyra's attention, and she stormed over to confront Ken about it.</p><p>"How fucking dare you?" she demanded the moment her uncle answered the door. "He can't control who he is, and--hell, even if he could, he shouldn't have to!"</p><p>"He can damn well control it," Ken grumbled. "He wasn't born with an issue of <em>UFOs Monthly</em> in his goddamn hand, Lyra!"</p><p>"Wait," Lyra said, blinking in confusion. "It was UFO magazines? Not, you know... another thing?"</p><p>"I don't know what the hell you mean by that, but yeah." Ken let out a heavy sigh, massaged his temples, and shook his head. "You know I've done my best to raise that kid proper, Lyra, but I think he's just wrong in the head. I can't abide by all these crazy theories of his, and neither can your mom and dad. When Rose gets outta jail, I don't think she's gonna want to see him like this, either. Better to just cut ties now and move on."</p><p>"That's..." At her sides, Lyra's hands clenched into fists. She scrutinized her uncle's expression; remorse was written all over his face, and it looked genuine. A similar feeling took hold inside her, and she realized that he must have felt close to the same way she did about Tucker. "'Is that really okay? I mean, he's still family..."</p><p>"Family or not, some people just aren't good to be around." Ken laid a hand on her shoulder and held her gaze, in the same way that her parents almost never did anymore, and she gulped at the sudden unpleasant situation of being understood too well. "Especially if you're trying to get ahead in a career, you can't let him drag you down."</p><p>The next time she spoke at length with Tucker, which was almost half a year later, she didn't mention her conversation with Ken. He, in turn, didn't mention whatever complicated feelings he must have had about his mother's release from prison. She didn't tell him about the way that Rose's release was making Skye even more unbearable than usual to talk to, which in turn made Ernest more irritable, and all in all made Lyra want to throw herself out a goddamn window. She just briefly mentioned how the band was doing, and he only vaguely alluded to whatever inane conspiracy theory he was formulating that week. Mostly they just apologized for not talking in a while, without promising to do better in the future. And Lyra hung up the phone feeling even emptier than she had after their last argument.</p><p>*</p><p>In the meantime, things were looking up for her in terms of a music career. Neil's friend Cindy joined their little band after a while, and a few months after that, a guy called Diablo joined as well. Lyra vaguely recognized both these new members as having been frequent customers of the record shop she used to work at, but she didn't really know either of them; they were only allowed to join on the merit of their musical abilities. That wasn't to say they were terrific; honestly, none of them were very good. But all of them could play at least one instrument, and that was enough.</p><p>Somehow, they actually managed to gain a bit of a following. They found an agent, and they started booking regular gigs at various local establishments, and within a couple years almost everyone in town knew them. And then people out of town started knowing about them, too. Looking back on it, Lyra could only chalk their burgeoning success up to sheer dumb luck. But they were improving, too, bit by bit. By the time they got their first record deal, they actually sounded pretty decent when they played together. And by the time they went on their first tour, and played outside their hometown, she could confidently say that the applause they got was earned on the basis of a legitimately good performance.</p><p>By that point, Lyra had enough money in the bank to afford her own house. It wasn't particularly big (that would come later, in the form of renovations once she was rich enough to afford a bigger house but too emotionally attached to the one she had to move) or lavishly decorated, but it was all her own, a place where she could be by herself. While she was moving in, her parents dropped by--both of them, together. (They'd been getting along better lately, both with each other and ostensibly with her. Now that the band was actually doing well, suddenly they approved of her music career a lot more than they had before.) They brought her a few housewarming gifts, in the form of stuff she'd already owned, brought over from her old room at their house. This included her old collection of books she'd read in elementary and high school. She considered tossing them out, but wound up keeping them in a cardboard box tucked away in her attic. Years later, when she was feeling nostalgic, she'd dig them out and use them to line a new bookshelf, mainly because she wasn't much of a reader anymore and didn't have much else to line the shelves with in the first place.</p><p>Although he never attended any of her shows, Tucker did come see her backstage after a show at the local auditorium once, when she was still in her stage makeup. To say she was startled to see him there would be an understatement. But there he was, staring at her with his eyes narrowed and lip curled in what almost looked like a sneer.</p><p>"What are you here for?" she asked, regarding him warily and trying to keep her voice level despite the storm of emotions that flared up within her at the sight of him. "I thought you didn't approve of my music career."</p><p>(In retrospect, he'd never said anything like that. She had no idea where she even got that notion from, aside from picking up on her parents' former disapproval and projecting it onto him.)</p><p>"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, ignoring her remark altogether. He looked her up and down--the hair, the earrings and facial piercings, the admittedly somewhat provocative clothing--and his expression sharpened into what was unmistakably a scowl. "You never used to be like this. You used to--" His voice faltered, and his shoulders shook slightly. "We used to understand each other."</p><p>"And you think that's my problem?"</p><p>It was supposed to be a snappy retort, but the words came out sounding more like a plea. Something tightened in the back of Lyra's throat, and she suddenly found herself fighting to hold back tears. She didn't want to have to deal with smudged mascara. People would want to take photos of her, and she didn't want them concocting rumours about scandals that could ruin her career.</p><p>"For the past--god, what's it been--five, six years?" He paused and shook his head, frown deepening. "I've been trying my best with all my theories, okay? I've been working hard. And I've been making progress, too. But it would be so much easier if I had you to encourage me, the way you used to."</p><p>"I would encourage you! You know I would, I'd be with you every step of the way, if you were doing something normal. Something real."</p><p>"You don't get to decide what I do with my life!" he snapped, with such ferocity that Lyra actually flinched. "You're not my goddamn mother!"</p><p>"No kidding, I'm not your mother--I'm actually making an honest living!"</p><p>She knew that was a low blow, and she cringed internally at herself for even going there, but Tucker barely seemed to register the personal jab. Although there were visible tears building in his eyes and his hunched shoulders continued to shake, his glare was unwavering. He took a step toward her, and she found herself taking a step back. She didn't know what she was afraid of. He wouldn't hurt her. Would he?</p><p>"And you're not..." He paused and took a deep breath. "You're not my big sister, either. So stop acting like you have any say in my life."</p><p>Lyra gasped as if she'd just been stabbed. That was what it felt like--the sharp cold feeling that slid into her chest with those words. He was right, of course. They weren't siblings, no matter how much she'd wished they were as a child, no matter how often they were mistaken for them. But still...</p><p>"You're not just a relative, you know," she told him, her own voice beginning to quiver now despite her best efforts to keep it steady. "You were my friend, too. My best friend, for a long time."</p><p>"But you're not going to support me."</p><p>It was a statement, not a question. She just stood there and stared at him, wishing she could refute that accusation. <em>And you're not going to support me, either, </em>she thought, thinking of the way his lip curled at the sight of her in her stage makeup. <em>So I guess we're done here, then.</em></p><p>"I think you'd better leave, Tucker."</p><p>It was a struggle to even get the words out around the choking swell of emotions in her throat. But she fought and somehow managed to hold back the tears that were building behind her eyes, and so when she glimpsed the first few tears visibly rolling down her cousin's anger-flushed cheeks, she felt a strange pang of bitter vindication. She was stronger than him. Better than him. She didn't need him to drag her down. With those thoughts forcefully pushed to the forefront of her mind, she straightened her posture and glared down at him, not leaving room for further argument.</p><p>"Fine," he sniffled. "Good riddance."</p><p>*</p><p>Later, when the band was getting drinks to celebrate another successful show, her bandmates inquired about the man who they'd seen storming out of the backstage room. Neil must have known it was Tucker, or at least suspected--the family resemblance between him and Lyra was pretty strong, after all--but he didn't say anything, instead opting to stare out the window in silence.</p><p>"Yeah, seriously, who was that guy?" Diablo was saying, leaning across the table to scrutinize Lyra. She couldn't tell whether he was concerned or suspicious, and either way, being the subject of his attention made her squirm in her seat.</p><p>"He wasn't bothering you, was he?" Cindy added anxiously, eyes wide behind the curtain of her bangs.</p><p>"No, he..." Lyra stared down at her glass, into her murky reflection that was barely recognizable as anything resembling herself. She sighed and took another sip in hopes that the alcohol would make her feel better, then set the glass down and shook her head. "Ugh, well, I guess he was kinda bothering me. But don't worry. I'm pretty sure, uh, he's out of the picture now."</p><p>That night wasn't the last interaction she would have with Tucker, but it may as well have been. They talked on the phone a few more times, and apologized for the things they said to each other, although they never claimed not to have meant it. But without Lyra even really noticing, their conversations happened at an increasingly lower rate, until one day she woke up and realized that it had been well over a year since she'd last seen Tucker in person--and, although guilt squirmed like maggots in her gut, she had no desire to rectify it by reaching out to him and making plans. In fact, by that point they never really talked on the phone anymore, either.</p><p>But the band was doing great. She still had her whole life ahead of her. So why get bogged down thinking about the past? That was what she told herself every day, and over time, she gradually started to believe it. She just hoped, on some inexorable yet deeply repressed level, that her little cousin managed to find happiness and fulfillment somehow, just as she had.</p><p>Come to think of it, the night of their last big argument was technically the last time Tucker saw Lyra alive. But, of course, it wouldn't be the last time they ever saw each other.</p><hr/><p>"...And so then he called me one night, and, y'know..." Lyra trailed off with a shrug, unsure of what to say in conclusion. "The rest is history, I guess?"</p><p>She knew it was a lame way to end a story that she'd spent the past week or so relaying to the doctors in between their examinations and excercises, but talking about anything that had happened within the past few years--especially after her initial death and resurrection--just felt too close to home. Telling them all this had already stirred up too many long-buried regrets, which now pulsed through her in much the way that blood no longer did.</p><p>"I see." The doctor who was examining her scribbled something down in their notebook, expression flat and unreadable. "Well, it seems that your memory is fully functional. I'm sure your friend will be happy to see you once you're released."</p><p>"Yeah, I sure hope so," Lyra muttered. "And, uh, when will that be, exactly?"</p><p>The doctor gave her a tight-lipped approximation of a smile. "Don't worry, Ms. Deward. Your mobility is improving every day."</p><p>"That's not an answer."</p><p>In response to that, the doctor said nothing at all. Instead they jotted something else down on the clipboard, then turned and left the room as if Lyra wasn't there at all. A growl rose in her throat--a very zombie-like noise, fittingly enough. It was quickly followed by a sound that was refreshingly un-zombie-like, but equally unwelcome: a sudden, uncontrollable sob.</p><p>Lyra rolled onto her side and clutched her head in her hands, provoking only a slight creak of protest from her gradually de-stiffening muscles. <em>God damn it...</em> Her memories played through her head on repeat, arranging like scattered music notes into a piercing song that wormed its way into her ears and wouldn't leave her brain. Thinking back on it all, it was so obvious. She could have done better. <em>Should</em> have done better. She was supposed to look out for Tucker, but instead she ran away when he became too much for her to handle. And then, just when they were finally close again, she went behind his back for the sake of preserving her own reputation. <em>I fucked up. I fucked it all up so bad.</em></p><p>"I'm sorry for everything," she whispered against the flimsy yet coarse fabric sheet draped over her little cot. "When I get out of here, Tucker, please--please don't hate me."</p><p>But even making that pathetic plea aloud to herself, she could see the lines of stitches marring her arms, and she was sure her face was even worse. Looking at her stitched-together skin, feeling her own lack of a heartbeat, knowing she was a freak and a liar and that she was the one who had ruined everything, then and now alike--she couldn't possibly feel anything but resentment toward herself, and it was hard to imagine that anyone else would feel differently.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. If I make it through tonight, everybody's gonna hear me out</h2></a>
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    <b>Purchase declined. Insufficient funds.</b>
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</p><p>Tucker stared blankly down at the message on the card reader. After a moment, he slowly retracted his debit card and raised his head to blink apologetically at the cashier.</p><p>"...Ah. I'll put these things back on the shelf, then."</p><p>"No, it's fine, we'll take care of that," the cashier interjected with a wave of their hand. They spoke quickly enough that it was obvious they weren't as unbothered as they were trying to act. "Have a nice day."</p><p>"Sure," he sighed as he tucked the card away in his purse. "You, too."</p><p>He turned and left the convenience store, leaving his would-be purchases--a cook-from-frozen TV dinner, a loaf of whole wheat bread, and a six-pack of instant noodle cups--behind on the checkout conveyor belt. Those items had come to a total price of barely ten dollars. And he couldn't afford it.</p><p><em>Well, be out of a job for three months, what do you expect?</em> he thought, lips twisting into a bitter smirk. <em>I was bound to run out of money sometime.</em></p><p>It wasn't as if he hadn't tried finding work. Maybe he hadn't been trying hard enough, especially not since Lyra... but he <em>had</em> tried. As he trudged along the sidewalk, occasionally pausing to scuff his shoes against the grass and weeds that stuck up between the cracks, he mentally recounted every establishment that had rejected his application.</p><p>There was the convenience store he'd just left, and two separate grocery stores on either side of town--not good enough to be a cashier or to wander around restocking shelves. There was the local library, and the bookstore--not good enough to shelve books, even though he could recite the dewey decimal system with his eyes closed. There were five different receptionists' offices at different stores and pharmacies--not good enough to answer the phone for a living. There was the old arcade, of course--the closest he'd gotten to actually being hired, except actually not at all, because the whole thing was only ever a trap. Then there was that bookkeeping gig, and then...</p><p>After so much rejection, he just had to face it: he was a failure. A failure who spent years chasing down idiotic fantasies and was doomed to always end up alone.</p><p>The distant sound of unamplified music broke through his haze of depression. Squinting against the midday sunlight, he raised his head and looked around for the source of the sound. There, in a small park a few blocks down the road, he could make out a small crowd gathered around the play equipment, upon which three adults were standing (looking incredibly out of place on the child-sized play structure) and playing instruments.</p><p>Tucker raised his eyebrows. Although he was only faintly intrigued, he didn't have anything else going on at the moment, so he wandered over. The performers had their backs to him, so he wasn't able to see what they looked like as he approached, but once he was in earshot he picked up on the lyrics one of the performers--a woman with wavy hair--was singing.</p><p><em>"It's like gulping down a cold drink, you freeze my brain/ But at the same time, it sets my whole world aflame/ This secret desire only brings me pain/ Because things can never be the same/ Because for now, you're my dear friend/ I don't want what we have to end/ But I can't pretend/ Forevermore, can't distract myself from you/ I'm tired of singing a capella, if you know what I mean/ I want to fall in the centre of your sunbeam</em>..."</p><p>He cringed and turned to walk away. It was nothing personal, of course, but the woman's voice was rather high-pitched and whispery, taking a sharp uptick into reedy on the high notes. And the lyrics weren't particularly impressive, either. Whoever this little group was, clearly they weren't professionals.</p><p>Then he paused. <em>Wait.</em> As the woman continued singing, something clicked in Tucker's mind. <em>I've heard that voice before, haven't I? </em>And not on the radio, but somewhere else. In person. Slowly, he turned around and walked over to observe the performance from behind a tree a couple metres away--as close as he felt he could get without being noticed. Looking at the three performers from behind, he realized that he also recognized the leather jacket one of them was wearing.</p><p>
  <em>Ah-hah. So that's it.</em>
</p><p>As the recognition sank in, it stirred up an unidentifiable mix of emotions that left Tucker feeling vaguely queasy. That little triad, formerly a quartet, appeared to be carrying on just fine--the key word being <em>appeared.</em> In a way, it brought him a sick sense of vindication to observe them musically floundering without their lead singer. It was tangible proof of the deep-seated feeling that resided within him: the world couldn't just go on easily without Lyra. Her loss would be <em>felt,</em> and he wasn't crazy for dwelling in that pain.</p><p>As the band wrapped up their song, met with a smattering of applause that was about as energetic as you could charitably expect from a crowd of strangers in a park on a Wednesday, they bowed as if it were a whole concert hall cheering for them. Once the applause had died down (which didn't take terribly long) Cindy muttered a shy "Thank you" to the crowd, which by that point was already dissipating.</p><p>Tucker stood by and watched as the band climbed down from the play equipment, gathered up their instruments, and wandered back to their car. Only--and it took him a shamefully long stretch of seconds to notice this glaringly obvious fact--they weren't wandering away from him, but directly towards him. To make things worse, before he could duck back behind the tree, Neil caught his eye and waved at him.</p><p>"Well, hey, look who it is!"</p><p>Tucker stiffened like a prey animal in the talons of a hawk. His facial muscles twitched as he attempted to force them to return Neil's friendly smile; failing that, he weakly raised a hand in greeting as the band members closed in around him.</p><p>"Oh... hi, guys. Cool show."</p><p>"Pff, are you kidding? That was awful," Diablo muttered, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and kicking at a tuft of grass. "Except for Cindy's closing number, of course."</p><p>"No, mine wasn't any better," Cindy said. Diablo opened his mouth with an indignant expression, but she cut him off before he could speak: "And I'm <em>not</em> just saying that to be hard on myself! We all did our best today, but without Lyra... well, the sound just wasn't right there."</p><p>"Ah," said Tucker. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased at the confirmation that he didn't have to pretend that their performance had been stellar, but he was still very stiff and awkward, and the mention of Lyra wasn't helping. "Well, it's good that you're still trying."</p><p>He winced as soon as those words left his mouth. <em>Oh, that was an offensive thing to say, wasn't it? </em>Luckily, Cindy just shrugged and laughed in a way that sounded forced but only slightly bitter.</p><p>"Well, hey," Neil interjected, no doubt in an attempt to ease the tension, "Good show or not, at least we made a few bucks."</p><p>He held up an upside-down fedora and shook it in demonstration. The rattling sound from within suggested a good mix of change and paper money; sure enough, when Tucker leaned in to see how much money the band had garnered, he saw that it was literally full to the brim. He gulped, trying to swallow back the sharp twinge of jealousy that struck him at the sight. It wasn't right to begrudge these people--they were clearly suffering too--but... <em>It just isn't fair!</em></p><p>"Say, this is more than enough to treat four people," Neil remarked as he sifted through the band's earnings. "You wanna come to lunch with us, Tucker?"</p><p>"I--I, er," Tucker stammered, "Sorry, what?"</p><p>"Yeah, c'mon," said Diablo, slinging an arm over Tucker's shoulder in a gesture that was <em>far </em>too casually friendly for his personal comfort. "Least we can do for our band leader's little cousin, eh?"</p><p>Tucker's eyes darted back and forth between the band members' expectant faces. Discomfort churned ferociously in his gut, but it wasn't quite as severe as the gnawing hunger that came from missing breakfast that morning and dinner the previous night. Moreover, he knew he'd look like an asshole if he turned down this offer. He was surprised they were even continuing to be this friendly with him; all things considered, it was more than he deserved. And he didn't dislike these people in the slightest--if anything, they were the closest he had to friends at this point.</p><p>Fine, then. Just one outing with these three, and then he'd steer clear so as to never inconvenience them again.</p><p>"Alright. That sounds lovely."</p><p>*</p><p>The longer Lyra was at the facility, the more she felt like a prisoner. And that was saying a lot, because she'd already felt like a prisoner from the moment she woke up back in that godforsaken place. (Literally--if there was a god, or something like it, she'd be willing to bet they wouldn't approve of a place like this, for a number of reasons.)</p><p>"Feels like my hair's getting kinda long," she remarked once. Upon getting no reaction from the doctor monitoring her aside from a raised eyebrow, Lyra went on: "I mean it! It feels weird. Can't you get me a pair of scissors or a razor or something?"</p><p>To demonstrate, she ran her fingers through the dark raggedy locks. All the dye was washed out, too, but at least that wasn't super noticeable to Lyra herself. But the extra weight on her head that she wasn't used to was driving her crazy.</p><p>The doctor shook his head. "Sorry. You're not allowed any sharp objects."</p><p>"Why not? You think I'm gonna stab you or something?" Lyra scoffed disdainfully, giving her hair another tug. "Just because my dad's name is Ernest, doesn't mean I'm looking to go to jail."</p><p>Her quip was received with a blank, plainly unimpressed stare. "We can't run the risk of having our limited resources go to waste."</p><p>"Huh?" It took a moment for Lyra to understand what the doctor was getting at. When it sunk in, she wasn't sure whether to laugh or to throw something across the room (not that she had anything to throw, anyway). "Oh, you're kidding! You think I would off myself? Seriously? No, dude, I wanna go home and see my friends and family!"</p><p>"I don't doubt that," the doctor replied with a placid smile that looked like a customer service worker on a particularly stressful day. "But it's better to be safe than sorry. That's what we always say here at the agency. Now, Ms. Deward," he went on, tapping his pen against the clipboard, "Can you walk over to me?"</p><p>Lyra bit back a sardonic mutter that she knew would just earn her another lecture and, with a grunt of effort, eased herself off the cot. Her legs were getting steadier with every day; she was able to stand up straight without too much effort by now. Slowly, carefully, she lifted one foot off the ground and moved it forward. Her other leg wobbled for a moment, but then she put her foot down in front of it, and she was steady again. She repeated this movement with her other foot, and then again, and again. Bit by tedious bit, she made her way across the gray concrete floor and over to the doctor.</p><p>(The whole thing wasn't too different from physical therapy sessions at a regular hospital, she noted. Of course, regular hospitals would allow her to have visitors, and a bedside table where maybe people could bring her some magazines to read or something to prevent her from going completely out of her mind with boredom. And they'd probably feed her, too--not that she would have benefited from that, but the courtesy would've been nice anyway. Really, she didn't get why the agency insisted on keeping her in their creepy little dungeon when an actual medical facility could probably have seen her through the rest of her recovery just fine.)</p><p>At last, she made it across the room. The doctor--which may not have been the right word, because he may or may not have had a medical degree, but all these people in lab coats refused to give out their names and Lyra had to call them something--nodded in approval, a genuine smile breaking onto his face. He dashed some notes down on his clipboard and then gave Lyra a pat on the back.</p><p>"You're improving a lot," he said. "With any luck, you'll be able to rejoin the living within the next few weeks."</p><p>"Great." Lyra was so worn out and pissed off by this whole ongoing experience that everything she said came out sounding bitter and sarcastic, but the grin that split her marred face then was absolutely genuine, as was the sentiment behind her words. "Can't wait."</p><p>Another time, she requested a mirror or something to see herself in. That request, too, was politely yet firmly denied. Presumably, they didn't want her seeing herself and freaking out. Well, that ship had already sailed. She recalled all too well the way she clutched at her face and wailed in unyielding panic and despair the first time around--and not just in her initial recovery period, either, but for days and weeks and months after the fact. But by now she was begrudgingly used to her status as a freak. Whatever new scars she had, she'd just have to buy even more makeup to cover them all up.</p><p>And she knew she had new scars. It wasn't like it was some big secret. She could see them on the rest of her body anyway, peppered here and there across her skin. They were mostly a lot smaller than the ones she'd gotten from her first death. The biggest one she could see for herself ran around the circumference of her right breast. No doubt her seatbelt was to blame for that. Of course, a single body part was a small price to pay, but that was only assuming that the belt actually wound up saving one's life, which in her case it hadn't. There were also some smaller scars all across the left side of her body, where she figured she'd gotten pelted with glass from the driver's side window.</p><p>When she traced her hands over herself, she could feel a new scar across her throat as well. She shuddered every time she brushed her fingertips along the stitches. And then there was one that went across her face, almost perpendicular to the one she already had from her first death. It crossed right over her left eye. Finally, it felt like there was a new scar snaking along somewhere on her scalp, but it was hard to be sure with all the unwanted hair in the way.</p><p>So, yeah. Just one answered question and one ungranted request after another, for weeks on end. And all the while, Lyra was in near-constant (albeit gradually diminishing) pain every time she moved. Great.</p><p>At the very least, during her time cooped up in the facility, she managed to learn a bit of information about the place. Not information she was especially interested in or anything, but information nonetheless. Sure, none of the doctors would answer any of her questions, but sometimes they'd talk amongst themselves in hushed tones when they thought she was asleep. And after five, almost six years of pretending to be alive, turned out she was also pretty good at pretending to be asleep. Go figure.</p><p>"It's not as simple as baseball rules--you know, three strikes and you're out," she heard one of the doctors saying once. "But at the end of the day, the human body can only be jolted back to life so many times before there are... ah... irreversible side effects. You've made this clear to Deward, yes?"</p><p>"Oh, yes, I gave her a warning," replied her agent, whose voice Lyra immediately stiffened at only to force her muscles back into relaxation so nobody would notice her wakefulness. "Although I suppose I made it sound more like a threat... heh. As if we have any control over it."</p><p>"Luckily, she seems to be recovering normally," the doctor went on. "With any luck she'll be fit to return to society within the week."</p><p>"I should hope so!" Her agent again, and her voice was sharp with what sounded like genuine concern. Lyra was puzzled for a moment before remembering that she was the source of most of her agent's income, so of course her agent would be invested in her recovery. "It's getting harder every day to convince the presses that she's still in the hospital undergoing this and that surgery."</p><p>Another time, she heard a small group of doctors talking amongst themselves after having spent the day running all sorts of tests on her that had left her genuinely exhausted. She would have gone to sleep for real, had she not caught a snippet of dialogue that left her so instantly intrigued that she had to hear the rest.</p><p>"Thank fuck they finally got rid of that old body in the main freezer, huh?"</p><p>"Hey, maybe they finally found something to fill it with." This was spoken in a lighthearted tone, like the person speaking was making some kind of in-joke. One of the other doctors laughed, while another voiced their confusion.</p><p>"Yeah, seriously, why'd they even keep the damn creepy thing around for so long?"</p><p>"Because... ah, I don't know. You know how some people will get their dead pets taxidermied?"</p><p>"I guess so, but--"</p><p>"Wait, people do that? What the fuck?"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, anyway, I think it's like that. For the boss, I mean."</p><p>"But this isn't a pet, it's a guy!"</p><p>"Not just any guy. The boss's kid."</p><p>"Christ, man, that's so much worse! What the hell?"</p><p>"Woah, wait, the boss had a kid? What happened to him?"</p><p>"Ah, right, this was back in the 80's... I guess you haven't been around that long. Yeah, Bennet had a son--Cal. Kid grew up always hanging around at the facility with his folks, learning all the tricks of the trade. Got a job as a mechanic. When he was twenty-five he was found disemboweled in his workshop behind the old arcade. Bennet's been hanging onto the body ever since in hopes that they'll find the poor kid's brain someday."</p><p>Lyra, who up to that point had been listening in silent bewilderment and disgust, tensed at the mention of the arcade. Without meaning to, she drew in a quiet gasp. At once, the doctors' footsteps approached her. Keeping her eyes screwed shut, she could picture them leaning over to examine her.</p><p>"You're awake," one of them said--a direct statement, not a question. "How much did you overhear?"</p><p>Sighing, Lyra opened her eyes to stare up at the furrowed brows of the doctors. The one who had just addressed her--and the one who had been telling the story about the boss's kid--was clutching their clipboard and pen in much the same way one might hold a weapon. Lyra shuddered at the intensity of their glares. Better not admit to overhearing too much.</p><p>"I, uh... did you guys say something about the arcade?" She scratched the back of her neck and gave them a strange little attempt at a smile, like an awkward high schooler looking too hard for something to connect over with their crush. "I used to go there when I was a teen."</p><p>"I see." The doctor raised an eyebrow, while behind them one of the others jotted something down on her clipboard. "And did you ever see anything strange while you were there?"</p><p>"Nah, just normal arcade stuff."</p><p>"I see." The doctors exchanged a look and nodded to each other, and the one who was addressing her lowered their clipboard and gave Lyra an affirmative pat on the shoulder. "That's fine, then. Go on back to sleep."</p><p><em>Geez, what am I, a kid?</em> she thought, but didn't dare voice those complaints. Not that she thought any of these guys would hurt her just for speaking out of line, especially since she was apparently such a drain of the facility's resources, but... well, if she had information she wasn't supposed to know, who knew what the facility would do to keep their secrets safe?</p><p>*</p><p>The air was cold that day. Not the dry, biting cold of winter--of course not; it was already May (god, where did the time go?)--but the damp cold that signified a heavy rain due later in the day. Sure enough, a glance overhead revealed dark gray clouds slowly approaching from the distance. Tucker suppressed a shiver and quickened his pace. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in the rain without a jacket.</p><p>He could hear muffled music from within the studio as he approached. The sun, not yet obscured by the incoming storm clouds, was still distinctly in the eastern hemisphere of the sky--he was early, then. That was no surprise. He normally liked to take his time on these walks, especially since he had little else to do with his time, but not when he could get rained on at any minute. Hopefully the band would pardon his intrusion.</p><p>Despite his best efforts at slipping in unnoticed, the music screeched to a halt the moment he opened the door. His face burned under the band's collective gaze, although their expressions were nothing but friendly. He gave them a shy smile and an awkward little half-wave before scurrying over to stand in the corner while they finished their rehearsal.</p><p><em>Just one outing.</em> That's what he'd told himself two weeks ago. But knowing this friend group and their bizarrely amicable nature, he really should have known better.</p><p>Partway through lunch on the day of their chance meeting at the park, Tucker had accidentally revealed that "It's been a while since I've had this much to eat for one meal... or since I've had much to eat at all, really." Looking back on it, maybe there was some subconscious part of him that had let this pathetic fact slip out on purpose as some sort of cry for help. Either way, it got the band's attention. As soon as he admitted to how empty his bank account was, they were all scrambling to lend him some money, even when he warned them that he probably (definitely) wouldn't be able to repay them any time soon (or ever). It was a humiliating affair, to say the least, being the subject of so much pity. Now he was meeting with the band every other day at their studio, where they would share food with him and give him a few dollars--like a child's allowance, and he wasn't even doing anything to earn it. <em>God, I'm pathetic.</em></p><p>Still, pathetic though he was, his life these days more or less depended upon him accepting the band's kindness. And he wanted to live, or at least he didn't actively want to die... most days. He relapsed every now and then, into crevices of despair so deep that even if everything he'd lost was magically restored he'd still be miserable, but he was getting better, or at least not actively getting worse (most days). Some days he even applied for jobs, although he still wasn't having any luck in that department. In any case, it was easier to imagine himself having a future when his cousin's bandmates were looking out for him like this, even though he still couldn't imagine what form an actual future for him could possibly take.</p><p>And so, come quarter-after-noon (or 12:17, to be precise, based on his constant checking of the clock) he once again found himself seated among the band as they sat down to eat. As always, he came empty-handed, but those hands were quickly filled. Cindy handed him a mandarin orange, Neil gave him a granola bar, and Diablo tossed him a small bag of ketchup flavoured chips. Although Tucker instinctively wrinkled his nose at the chip bag as it landed in his hands, he thanked all three of the band members for their generosity, and he meant that thanks wholeheartedly. He didn't know what he'd done to warrant their kindness, and he couldn't help feeling it was misplaced, but every time one of them dug something out of their bag and pressed it into his hands, his heart was filled with an overwhelming warmth that left an imprint on him even on the days when he was in the depths of despair.</p><p>Still, his gratitude wasn't quite enough to overpower the pervasive sense of being an intruder, so he ate in silence while the band members talked amongst themselves. Neil was partway through a long-winded rant about the true nature of birds, which Tucker was rather enraptured by and wished he could work up the self-esteem to jump into, when Cindy's phone buzzed with a new notification. She gasped and pushed herself back from the table with a clatter. At once all eyes were on her, as her incredulous gape slowly morphed into a grin.</p><p>"Guys, holy shit," she breathed, holding her phone out so the others could see what was displayed on the screen. "Lyra's finally getting out of the hospital!"</p><p><em>Huh?</em> Tucker just blinked, startled and initially excited, not having time to process the impossibility of that statement before Diablo let out a loud whoop and jumped to his feet.</p><p>"God, fucking finally! When's she getting out?"</p><p>"It says here..." Cindy glanced back at her phone and then back up at her boyfriend, her grin somehow even wider than before. "Today."</p><p>With that, the table burst into a cacophony of disbelieving and excited interjections. Neil grabbed the phone from Cindy's hand and scrolled through the news article she'd pulled up before handing it back to her, shaking his head with a wild look in his eyes. It wasn't a <em>no, that's not true</em> head-shake, but a <em>woah, I can't believe it</em> head-shake. And, indeed, "I can't believe this!" was one of several things Diablo yelled, with his head thrown back and his arms raised as though in some sort of prayer to the ceiling light.</p><p>Sitting as though frozen in the midst of this contagious excitement, Tucker's heart thrummed with building exuberance. <em>She's coming home? </em>The thought embedded itself in his brain, a serrated blade of hope, in much the same way that the notion of restoring the Polybius had embedded itself a few months ago, before...</p><p>Before the crash. The fatal crash. Right. Yes. Before his realization that he'd been wrong about everything. That there was no secret resurrection organization, that there was no miracle technology that could bring back the dead, that his loved ones were gone and he had no way of fixing it. Before that.</p><p>"I'm sorry," he muttered, unsure whether the band would even hear him over their own naive celebration, and addressing himself as much as them anyway. "It's not true."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>Silence fell over the table, and now everyone's eyes were on Tucker again, only now instead of friendly smiles their expressions were unreadable. He gulped and squirmed in his seat. If he were smart, he'd stay quiet, like he had up until now. Over the past couple of weeks, it had proven easier than expected not to tell them the truth. The band didn't bring up Lyra that often--not unlike Tucker, they were probably trying to distract themselves from thinking about her, and all the pain and grief it entailed. When she did come up in conversation, Tucker's skin would burn with shame during the little moment of silence that would pass between them, and burn hotter with any reference to her supposed impending recovery. But then someone would change the subject and things would settle back to pretending-to-be-normal.</p><p>He couldn't do that now. He couldn't stay silent. Not this time. The burning shame, the pressing guilt, the slow poison of unprocessed grief--it was all too much, especially now. He was sure it would kill him if he kept the truth in any longer.</p><p>"The news is lying to you," he said. "Lyra isn't coming out of the hospital. She's not coming home."</p><p>He lowered his head as he spoke, unwilling to look them in their eyes. None of them spoke, or even audibly moved, but he didn't need to see or hear their reactions; he could <em>feel </em>their stares boring through him, and it made his guts churn. Still, he had to keep talking. Tell them the truth, even if they didn't want to hear it. And of course they didn't want to hear it. Who would? <em>He</em> didn't want to hear it. He wanted, desperately, to stick his head back into his pile of post-it notes and news clippings, thumbtacks and string, and stay submerged in it until he drowned. But that wouldn't do any good for anyone. At least now they would know.</p><p>"She isn't coming back," he went on in a shaky voice, matched only by the shakiness of his hands in his lap as his nails dug into his legs, "Because she was never at the hospital to begin with. She wasn't just injured. She wasn't, <em>isn't</em> recovering." He took a deep breath, trying to hold back the all-too-familiar sensation of tears bubbling up inside him. <em>Please, god, not now. Not in front of the band. </em>"Sh-she's dead."</p><p>Silence. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted the seconds. <em>...Four, five, six, seven....</em> Each tick of the clock made him tense up further, if that was even possible, until the sound of chair legs scraping against the tiles made him flinch. Someone--Cindy, probably, judging by the pitch--yelped out an exclamation that Tucker didn't quite catch the back half of, by virtue of--</p><p>
  <em>Thwack!</em>
</p><p>He tasted blood against his tongue as his head was knocked to the side. He fell to the ground in a clatter and tumbled out of his chair, where he scrambled into a sitting position to see Diablo glaring down at him, face flushed and tears visibly building in his eyes.</p><p>"Bullshit!" There was fire in the band member's voice, but it was a volatile fire, the type that would burn its wielder just as easily as their target. "What the fuck, man? Don't--you can't fucking joke about things like that!"</p><p>"Dia!" Cindy rushed to her boyfriend's side and grabbed his arm, forcefully lowering his raised fist. "What are you doing?"</p><p>"I--" Diablo looked at her, back at Tucker, and his eyes widened as a tear rolled down his cheek. "I'm sorry, man, I... but, fuck, man, I--you--you can't--"</p><p>"You didn't mean what you said just now," Cindy said slowly, a tremble in her voice even as she narrowed her eyes, "Did you, Tucker? It was just a really, really bad joke. Right?"</p><p>"I... I'm..." Adjusting his glasses, which had been knocked askew by the punch but miraculously stayed on his face, Tucker stared up at the furious young couple before him. The churning sensation grew thicker, until he was positive he was going to throw up. Somehow, for once, he couldn't feel any hint of tears on his face. "I'm sorry. I wish it wasn't true. But it is."</p><p>Diablo's jaw set into a scowl, and at his side, Cindy didn't try to stop him as he drew back his fist again. "Why, you..."</p><p>"Wait."</p><p>Cindy looked over her shoulder, and Diablo paused and turned to look as well. Tucker followed their gazes to see Neil getting to his feet--he'd remained sitting in silence up until then--and walking slowly over to stand between Diablo and Tucker. The studio lights glinted off his glasses, obscuring his eyes, but his mouth was set into a firm, thin line. Then he moved to face his bandmates, and his back was to Tucker, rendering his expression invisible altogether.</p><p>"Tucker isn't lying. I know it sounds crazy," Neil went on, raising his hands in an <em>I surrender </em>gesture before his bandmates could interject, "And I'm really, <em>really</em> sorry for keeping it a secret. I should have told you guys this a long time ago. But... well... Tucker's not wrong. Lyra's been dead for... for a while now, actually."</p><p>Through this speech, Tucker could only stare breathlessly at Neil's back. Past him, he could only partially see Diablo and Cindy--not their faces, but he got glimpses of their body language. Cindy drew closer to Diablo, letting out a little whimpery noise, and he muttered something along the lines of "You'd better not be fucking with us."</p><p>"I can assure you, I wouldn't lie or joke about something like this! And I'm sure Tucker wouldn't, either." With that, Neil glanced back down at Tucker, an odd sort of smile on his face. "You care a lot about Lyra, don't you? I know she cares a lot about you."</p><p>Tucker's eyes darted back and forth between Neil, Cindy, and Diablo. <em>Wait... what?</em> Neil knew? He'd known all along that Lyra was dead? And now he was <em>smiling</em> about it!? A chill ran down Tucker's spine, and he found himself scrambling across the tiles and then clumsily to his feet, heartbeat picking up. <em>I'm in danger.</em> The thought entered his mind not like the blatant piercing of hope or despair, but like an ice-cold needle that you don't feel until a few seconds after the fact. <em>I need to get out of here.</em></p><p>"Hey, Tucker, what--" Neil called after him, but Tucker didn't dare stop to look back as he turned and ran. Although he'd never been much of an athlete, he could sprint when the situation called for it. Within seconds, the door was slamming shut behind him as he was bolting down the sidewalk away from the studio.</p><p>It was raining. It took a few seconds, and his foot landing in a puddle that soaked him up to the ankle, for him to register this fact. Thunder rumbled overhead, and in the distance, the sky momentarily lit up with lightning. Tucker only took passing note of these things as he ran, and didn't let them slow his movement. He didn't even know what was driving him to run like this. He just knew he had to get away. So he ran.</p><p>It felt good, in a way, the way it stung his skin, biting through the light fabric of his button-up like it was noticing. Being stung was what he deserved. The throbbing pain in his jaw where Diablo had punched him was what he deserved. After all, Lyra had only crashed--only died--because Tucker had been talking to her while she was driving, because he just couldn't leave well enough alone. Just like with the Polybius, Tucker's own careless selfishness had gotten someone he loved killed. Unlike with the Polybius, this loss wasn't just his own. And now, in belatedly exposing the truth, he'd rid himself of whatever undeserved friendship he'd managed to cultivate with the band whose leader was dead because of him. He had half a mind to leap into the path of a lightning strike, if only to get away from all the shame and grief roiling inside and all around him, inescapable, choking.</p><p>With any luck, the rain would wash it all away. As raindrops accumulated on his glasses and obscured his vision, a mental image flashed before his eyes: his body sinking deep into some ambiguous body of water, blood trailing off his hands, leaving him cleansed of sin and, better yet, out of everyone else's way. Yes, that would be good. <em>Out of sight, out of mind. That's where I belong. Where I can't hurt anyone with my damned neediness and my insane conspiracy theories and my stupid fucking touch-tone telephone!</em></p><p>He came to a stop at a bridge overpass, where his lack of athleticism caught up with him and he slumped against the rain-slicked guard rail to catch his breath. Fifteen feet below him, the river churned in a violent rage. It took him several long moments to notice, but his whole body was trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. Drawing in a shaky gasp, he wrapped his hands tight around the rail. The cold wet of the rain on his face mixed with the warm wet of tears; how long had he been crying? At least this time nobody would be able to see. He could avoid humiliating himself any further. That was a small mercy, wasn't it? Too small a mercy to make any difference.</p><p>In the periphery of his senses, he half-registered a high-pitched sound repeating with increasing proximity. It was only when an unfamiliar voice snapped "Hey, idiot, get outta the way!" that Tucker remembered his surroundings and raised his head to see a bicycle racing towards him. The cyclist was decked out in a bright orange raincoat--great for visibility, even in this weather--and was pedalling furiously even as they hammered on their bell to warn him.</p><p>Tucker let out a yelp and jumped up onto the guard rail, in a clumsy crouching position with his legs tucked up beneath him. The cyclist passed him by in a whoosh, close enough to leave his hair standing on end and his heart hammering; Tucker thought he heard them muttering something disdainful, but they were moving too fast for him to make it out.</p><p>As the cyclist receded into the distance, Tucker let out a sigh of relief, letting his tightly wound muscles slacken. He realized his mistake a few milliseconds too late. When he relaxed, so did his white-knuckled grip on the guard rail. And when his grip loosened on that rain-drenched, slippery surface...</p><p>The residual momentum from his jump sent him tipping backward. Too far backward. When he realized what was happening, he immediately stiffened in shock. Had his body chosen a different instinctive reaction, he may have been able to regain his grip and hop down safely. As it was, he tipped over the edge and found himself on the wrong side of the guard rail. When he tried to grab hold of the rail again, his fingertips fell short.</p><p>And then he was free-falling through the rain, staring up at the receding underside of the bridge, and his heart was still pounding but his breath was caught in his throat, and the roar of the river was getting closer and closer to his ears until--</p><p>*</p><p>Lyra woke up in a startlingly bright room. For one fleeting moment she thought of some sort of afterlife, but that thought quickly retreated. She'd died twice already and didn't remember anything in between blacking out and being revived. No, this was definitely a physical place. There was a dull ache in her muscles from the strenuous exercises the doctors had put her through the previous day, and there was a chemically smell in the air that was similar to the one she'd begrudgingly gotten used to at the facility, but different. This scent was a little more sterile, like...</p><p><em>Oh, shit.</em> She shook her head and rubbed her eyes to clear away her grogginess. <em>Am I in an actual hospital?</em></p><p>She got her answer to that question when she sat up and took a look around. Sure enough, she was in a hospital bed, with a bajillion cards and flowers and balloons piled on her bedside table. Lyra winced; it was more colour than she'd seen in months. As her senses sharpened, she became aware of muffled voices from outside the room. They sounded excited.</p><p>"Oh, man..." Lyra let out a laugh of amazement that came out kind of strangled-sounding from sheer lack of practice. Giddy excitement began to thrum through her, so powerful that she could almost swear she felt her nonexistent pulse quicken. "Is this for real? Am I finally getting out?"</p><p>"That's right, Ms. Deward." A voice from behind startled her; Lyra looked over her shoulder to see her agent walking up to her with a smile. "Welcome back to the world of the living."</p><p>Her agent extended a hand, and Lyra took it without the faintest twinge of reluctance. However she felt about her agent's disposition, this wasn't the time to be proud. Her agent helped her to her feet and guided her to the door (Lyra was able to move around without much trouble now, but she was still just a bit unsteady on her feet; she wouldn't be able to perform onstage any time soon) and then stepped aside with a nod. Lyra hesitated for only one brief apprehensive moment before opening the door.</p><p>A pair of arms was around her and pulling her into a fierce embrace before she even had time to register who it was. She returned the embrace anyway, and as she did, she recognized the familiar scent of her father's flannel shirt, perpetually smelling of smoke from countless barbecues and cigarettes and campfires. A second pair of arms slid around her, and she felt something wet against her shoulder--tears, she realized, as her mother's muffled sobs met her ears.</p><p>Lyra stayed in that position, letting her parents hug her, for as long as she could comfortably handle before awkwardly shifting out of their grasp and taking a step back. Skye's makeup was smudged to the point where Lyra almost wondered if she'd put on extra mascara to make her tearfulness more pronounced. Ernest wasn't crying as visibly, but his eyes glistened with unmistakable emotion. When Lyra stepped gingerly away from their embrace, Ernest wrapped an arm around Skye's shoulder, and she leaned into his touch, their smiles unwavering.</p><p>"Darling, how are you?" Skye cooed, laying a hand on Lyra's cheek. "We missed you so much."</p><p>"Yeah, I missed you guys too." That wasn't a lie; of course she'd missed her parents while she was separated from them. But now that they were there again, their presence was a little overwhelming, especially when coupled with the restless crowd in the hallway just behind them. "Uh, how have you been holding up?"</p><p>"Your mother and I have been doing fine," Ernest assured her, folding his free hand around Lyra's hands while he slid his other hand down to squeeze his ex-wife's waist. "I know it's a cliche, but... I think having something so terrible happen to you made us realize what's really important--love, family, staying together."</p><p>"Woah, what?" Lyra raised an eyebrow and looked between her parents with bewilderment. "You guys aren't, like, getting back together, are you?"</p><p>"Well, we don't want to put a label on it just yet, but..." Skye rested her head against Ernest's shoulder, and as if on cue to drive the point home, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "We're thinking of moving back in with each other."</p><p><em>Huh.</em> Unsure of how to react, Lyra shrugged (probably the wrong reaction, in retrospect) and gave them an attempt at an encouraging smile.</p><p>"Wow, uh, that's... that's great." She patted her mother on the arm, and then after a brief awkward pause, repeated the gesture with her father. "Good for you."</p><p>She knew she should be more excited by this news. How many children of divorced parents would give anything for their parents to get back together? But, at least in that particular moment, she just couldn't bring herself to care that much. She didn't see her folks that often anyway, and the whole thing with them was just kind of... whatever. Honestly, if they hadn't even been there to greet her, she probably would have been more pissed off at them than actually disappointed by their absence.</p><p>Speaking of absence... Lyra scanned the gathered crowd behind her parents, and spotted a few familiar faces--her uncle Ken and aunt Rose, standing several feet apart from each other (evidently <em>those</em> two weren't so desperate to rekindle their former marriage); several more distant relatives who she'd seen a few times at family events in her youth; a good number of people she recognized from attending most of her band's shows; even a couple people she used to go to school with. But there were a few people she <em>didn't</em> see, and those absences brought her a twinge of anxiety that far outweighed the excitement of seeing her parents, and nearly outweighed her relief at finally being released altogether.</p><p>"Hey, uh..." She looked back at her parents, who were still grinning away like they were in a cheesy romcom, and tried to avoid sounding too worried. "Is Tucker here?"</p><p>"What? Your cousin?" Ernest raised his eyebrows, smile twitching into a confused frown before he hastily corrected it. "Why would you want to see that little... er, why do you want to see him?"</p><p>"Because I--" Lyra paused, biting her tongue with a scowl. She didn't want to start an argument, not now. This wasn't the time or place to get into a shouting match about Tucker's value as a person, or scream at the top of her lungs that she loved him like a sibling and always would. Instead she pointed into the crowd at her aunt and uncle. "Well, they're here, right? So why isn't their kid with them?"</p><p>Rose answered that question for her, stepping up with her arms crossed and an unmistakably haughty look on her face (haughtier than a woman who'd been rightfully convicted of money laundering had any right to be). "We haven't seen that foolish boy in years, and we intend to keep it that way. You would do the same if you knew what was good for you."</p><p><em>Why, you--! </em>Lyra bit down harder on her tongue, until she could taste blood in her mouth. It took everything in her power not to cuss her aunt out and/or slap her across the face. She made do with a silent glare and clenched fists that she fought to keep at her sides so as not to be visibly threatening. <em>Can't cause a scene,</em> she reminded herself, although the righteous anger bubbling like lava inside her wouldn't be quelled so easily. <em>Too many people watching.</em></p><p>"Well, I'm just glad you're okay," Skye said a bit more loudly than necessary, stepping away from her maybe-no-longer-an-ex husband to lay a hand on Lyra's back. "Isn't that right?"</p><p>Skye shot a meaningful look at her sister, and Rose's jaw set into a scowl, but she didn't make any snappy remarks. From his position a few feet back, Ken huffed with audible irritation, but then he caught Lyra's eye and gave her a curt nod. She returned the nod, and he smiled in a way that communicated at least some degree of genuine relief at seeing her again.</p><p>"Come on," said Ernest, slinging one arm around Lyra's shoulders and slipping his other arm around Skye. "Let's get out of here."</p><p>He led them down the hall and through the crowd, where nurses had to stand by and hold several people back from grabbing at Lyra's hair or skin. Complicated feelings toward her family aside, she had to admit she was grateful to her father for the way he kept his hand on her shoulder, guarding her from unwanted attention, and gruffly telling the crowd of strangers to back off when they got too close. Finally, they made it to the elevator, which was thankfully empty as they stepped inside. When the elevator doors slid closed, blocking them off from the crowd of fans and too-distant relatives, Lyra slumped with relief and let out a long, heavy sigh.</p><p>"So," Ernest remarked once they were in the elevator, "Your hair..."</p><p>Lyra grimaced at the reminder of her appearance. She ran a hand through her hair--yep, still longer than she liked, and all the dye still washed out, leaving it the same dark brown colour that she and her cousin had inherited from their mothers. It wasn't a bad colour by any means, but it was just too plain for her tastes. At least it wasn't all ratty. The doctors from the facility must have tidied her up a bit before shipping her off to the real hospital. In fact, come to think of it... she rubbed experimentally at the bridge of her nose, and sure enough, a bit of makeup came off on her fingers. <em>Ah, that figures. </em>The doctors had taken it upon themselves to apply concealer to all her stitches, so she didn't walk back into the world of the living looking like frankenstein's monster. <em>That's nice of them, I guess.</em></p><p>"It looks nice at this length, doesn't it?" Skye murmured, running a hand through Lyra's hair. "You should keep it this way."</p><p>"Uh, sure," Lyra muttered, as part of her continued effort not to piss her parents off at a time like this. "I'll think about it."</p><p>She was saved from having to talk about appearances any more by the chime signaling the elevator's arrival at the ground floor. The doors swished open, and Lyra stepped out into the lobby with a quick stride, eyes fixed upon the exit and determined to get outside as fast as possible.</p><p>"Lyra!"</p><p>Her eyes widened at the sound of a breathtakingly familiar voice. She looked for the source of the voice, and her gaze landed on a man in a light green raincoat running toward her. Lyra immediately broke into a grin.</p><p>"Neil!!"</p><p>She sprinted toward him, stumbling somewhat but ignoring her parents' exclamations of caution. She and Neil caught each other in a hug that sent both of them nearly tumbling over; he managed to catch himself against the reception desk.</p><p>"Oh my god," she half-laughed, half-sobbed as she clutched at the slippery plastic of his coat. "I missed you so fucking much, dude."</p><p>"I missed you too. We all did."</p><p>There was something strange in his voice--an odd strained note. The tightness of his arms around her and the warm dampness of tear tracks on his face mixed with the cold streaks of rain left no room for doubt as to his emotional state, but...</p><p>"Neil, what's going on?" she asked, shifting into a position where she could look him in the eye and speak clearly. (Unlike with her parents a few minutes ago, she didn't wriggle out of his arms altogether, and she wished she felt guiltier about this discrepancy.) "Did you come here alone? Where are the others?"</p><p>"They, uh..." Neil took a deep breath, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He must have known he couldn't lie to her; they knew each other too well. After a moment's pause, he shook his head, face dropping into an apologetic frown. "I told them. About you, you know--" He stole a glance around the room, at the receptionist and Lyra's parents and the various strangers coming and going. "Your secret."</p><p>"For real?" she asked, even though it was a stupid question; Neil wouldn't joke around with her about something like that. Sure enough, he gulped and nodded. "Aw, geez, dude... why?"</p><p>"Well, it's a little hard to explain..." Neil looked around the room again, adjusting his glasses. Laying a hand on Lyra's shoulder, he guided her toward the door and spoke to her in a hushed tone. "Um, Tucker was with us, and--"</p><p>"Tucker was with you?" she interjected. "Where is he now?"</p><p>"He, uh... well, the topic of you getting out of the hospital came up, and Tucker got really upset and said that you were dead. I don't know how he found out--he was acting kinda suspicious of you a few months ago, come to think of it, but I tried to warn him off back then--but anyway, Diablo got mad, and I didn't want a big fight to break out, so I told them the truth, that Tucker was technically right." He paused, gaze dropping. "While I was explaining the whole thing to Cindy and Diablo, Tucker started crying and ran out into the rain. I wanted to go after him, but I needed to handle things with the others first, get them calmed down."</p><p>"So, what happened?" Lyra pressed, gripping Neil's arm intently as anxiety gnawed at her gut. He winced and let out a little hiss of pain; she realized with a pang of guilt that she was digging her nails into his arm, and quickly retracted her hand. "Is everyone okay?"</p><p>"That's what we're hoping," he muttered darkly. Lyra's expression must have conveyed how stricken she was by that remark, because Neil held his hands up and quickly continued: "Everything's probably gonna be fine. Cindy and Diablo... well, I can't say they're not a little freaked out by the whole thing, but it's not like they're mad at you or anything. They're out looking for Tucker right now."</p><p>"...In the rain?" she whispered, echoing a detail of Neil's recount that was only just now registering with her.</p><p>He nodded, motioning toward the hospital doors. Outside, a torrential rainstorm was pouring down. <em>Well, of course, why else would he be in a raincoat and soaking wet? </em>Lyra thought of her little cousin, and his seemingly eternal inability to dress appropriately for cold weather, and she shuddered as deeply as if it were her out there in the rain. Neil gave her shoulder a squeeze and flashed her a melancholy smile--hopeful, but not trying to communicate any promises he knew he couldn't keep. She blinked gratefully at him. Then she straightened her back, squared her jaw, and set off toward the doors and the storm beyond.</p><p>"Well, I'm not gonna wait around for them to find him. Let's go."</p><p>"Wait, are you sure? You just--"</p><p>"Lyra Amelia Deward!" Skye's voice rang out, shrill with incredulous accusation. Wincing, Lyra turned to face her mother just as Skye reached her and grabbed her by the wrist. A few steps behind her, Ernest crossed his arms and shook his head. "Young lady, where do you think you're going?"</p><p>"I'm going to find Tucker," she snapped, tugging her wrist free of her mother's grip. "He needs me."</p><p>"You're not going out in the rain with just a hospital gown on," said Ernest. "Not a chance. And especially not for the sake of Skye's idiot nephew."</p><p>Neil's gaze flitted anxiously between Lyra and her parents. "Hey, Ly, maybe you should listen to them. It's not--"</p><p>"No!" She shook her head furiously, hot tears welling up in her eyes. "I--I've let him down too many times already. I'm not going to turn my back on him again!"</p><p>With that, she grabbed Neil's wrist and took off running with him in tow. Even with her legs still slightly unsteady, like some kind of baby animal that was already being forced to run for its life, she could move at a quicker pace than her middle-aged parents. They made it outside, and she barely even felt the rain on her exposed shoulders or the rough paving digging into her bare feet as she raced across the parking lot for Neil's car.</p><p>Despite his trepidation just a moment ago, Neil took the lead in the end. He made it to his car a few seconds before Lyra did, and he helped her into the passenger's seat and slammed the door just before her parents caught up with them. Then he turned the key, revved the engine, and they were off.</p><p>"Here," he said as they turned out of the hospital parking lot and onto the highway, handing her his cell phone without taking his eyes off the road. "Ask where they are now."</p><p>On his screen, he had a text conversation with Cindy pulled up. The most recent message was from Neil from five minutes ago, saying that he'd made it to the hospital to see Lyra. Hands trembling slightly from stress and shock and a million different emotions bouncing frantically around inside of her, Lyra typed in a new message.</p><p>
  <em>This is Lyra. Im ok. Where are you?</em>
</p><p>A few seconds that felt like an hour later, Cindy responded:</p><p>
  <em>We're @ the overpass by the river</em>
</p><p>Lyra relayed this information to Neil, and he nodded, glasses flashing as his mouth set into a firm line of determination. Captivity behind her and an urgent mission ahead, they sped off into the storm.</p>
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